Fait Accompli
by LilithBoadicea
Summary: The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux: Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione’s future becomes a political bargaining chip.
1. Aftermath

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE! This fic will involve sorcery, character death, swear words, an American writer attempting British English and generalised Lilith mayhem.

**Fait Accompli**

Floating. On a sea of black she floated, blissful emptiness all around and inside. A complete fullness of dark, no sound, no breath, no movement. This was the life.

_Harry. Ron._

_No._

Movement began, a sense of rushing, bright sparks and _sensation_. Pain.

_Oh god, that hurts._

She blinked, once, twice. It didn't help. Life went from soothing black to a fuzzy white world, too pale, too bright, and too painful.

"Drink this, dear. It'll help."

"Hurts..."

"I know, duck, just drink this."

"Harry... Ron?"

The voice- warm, matronly, female- clucked sympathetically. "Harry's no worse off than you are."

A vial was insistently put to her lips and she swallowed obediently. White faded to grey and then the black took over.

Much better.

Amelia Bones, Minister of Magic, surveyed the grounds at Hogwarts from the back of a thestral. Several small figures scuttled about far below, combing the area. The horse-like creature shifted, impatient, the smell of blood thick even from this height.

"Minister." Dumbledore greeted her. She resented the sudden urge to clutch him for comfort and wail like a small child.

"Professor. How many dead?" _Too many. Susan._

"Fourteen too many." Odd, how he echoed her own thoughts. "Two Death Eaters killed by their compatriots when they turned to run. Three Death Eaters killed in combat. Tom Riddle. Obviously."

Both thestrals maneuvered around a column of thick, greasy smoke. Hogsmeade was still burning. Once the beasts found clearer air they waited for directions from their riders. Neither Madam Bones nor Dumbledore gave indication for movement, so they merely waited.

She closed her eyes and was filled with the memory of Hogwarts as it had been in her day; pure, pristine, carefree. A place of children. For a time, she refused to open them; the sight below was one of scorched earth, blast marks, rubble. It was a violated place. At least the bodies had been removed. Dumbledore would have allowed her more time, forever perhaps, but things had to be done yet. Decisions must be made. He cleared his throat, ever so gently.

"I'll execute them all." She said it quite calmly, and felt better for it.

"That would be your right."

"Damn skippy, it is. Do you happen to have something stronger than tea, Dumbledore?"

"Minerva has located Poppy's medicinal store of seventeenth century bourbon. It's not lemon drops, but it isn't half bad. Shall we have a drop while we discuss logistics?"

The thestrals circled the wreckage and put down near the back of the castle. A hole had been blasted in the walls, conveniently near to the headmaster's office. It was a short walk that took too long, delayed by the throngs of Healers in lime green robes. The hallway reeked of medicinal things and devastation. It reeked of aftermath.

"Why _here_?" She hadn't meant to say it aloud. She hadn't even known she was thinking it.

The headmaster's eyes were overly bright and moist; they had the look of eyes that might never twinkle again. "Because this is where it would hurt the most. And because this is where Harry was. But mostly, I think, because this is where it would hurt the most."

His office was quiet, hushed, as if the room itself were in shock. They drew up chairs, poured drinks, and applied themselves to quill and parchment. St. Mungo's was overflowing and it was easier to treat the overflow at the site- Hogwarts- than to move the injured, dead and displaced. This meant food and drink, blankets, spare medicines, and volunteers to help with it all. Owls flew in, out and around the room, and Dumbledore filled a tray with bread crusts and water for the birds to refresh themselves before being given more letters to deliver. Paintings left for their other portraits, speeding messages along. Heads popped in and out of the fire. Arrangements were made. Dinner was left untouched and another bottle of bourbon was opened and half gone when the pair deemed Hogwarts on the way back to stability.

She leaned back in her chair. His eyes watched her. Was she ready? No, one could never be ready for this. Damn it all anyway. "The dead."

He handed a list to her, pretending not to see how her hand trembled. She took it, pretending not to see his breath hitch or his shoulders shake. It evened out.

Dennis Creevey, fourth year, Gryffindor house. Enchanted four suits of armour to successfully hold the breach in the wall of the Great Hall, thereby killing Antonin Dolohov and saving the first and second years hiding under the tables.

Severus Snape, head of Slytherin house. Killed while using his body as a shield to protect Ginevra Weasley.

Sibyl Trelawney, Divination teacher. Died of smoke inhalation while evacuating the Astronomy Tower.

Rubeus Hagrid, Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Held the front doors for twenty minutes with only three hippogriffs and a large dog.

Padma Patil, seventh year, Ravenclaw house. Broke the wands of three Death Eaters after the apparent loss of her own.

Susan Bones.

_Oh god._

Susan Bones, seventh year, Hufflepuff house. Pushed by Lucius Malfoy out of a third floor window, used Summoning charm to pull him out the same window after her. Both died in the fall.

She could read no more and put the list down. The names spun madly through her head regardless. Ernie Macmillan, Laura Madley, Malcolm Baddock, Millicent Bulstrode, Eloise Midgen, Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown, Euan Abercrombie. They all died bravely. More to the point, they all died.

"Order of Merlin, First Class, awarded to all posthumously. Full Ministry burial with honours. A plaque on the wall of the Ministry atrium bearing all their names. Whatever else I can think of in the next few months." Her hands curled instinctively into claws. "Execution isn't painful enough. I need to think of something better."

"You always were a creative student," he remarked mildly. Her answering grin was all teeth and no humour.

"_Accio _parchment!" She began dictating a letter to the French Minister, requesting all possible assistance in the locating and extradition of any Death Eater within French jurisdiction. The letter was smooth, artful, phrased in flawless French and overflowing with implications of what she, personally, would do to anyone who stood in her way. Dumbledore had to admire her style.

"More bourbon?"

"Lovely, thank you. France, Bulgaria, Assyria... where else might the Death Eaters run to?"

"It would be best to send word to all countries." An uncharacteristic hiss crept into his voice. "Otherwise they might try to get away."

"All countries, then. Brilliant idea, Headmaster."

She drained her glass in one go and stared into the fire. He noticed abruptly that she was quite drunk. "Is there anything else, Albus?"

"Several students are still missing. We have volunteers combing the grounds, though, and we are hopeful."

She sighed. No more names on the list. Please, no more names. "I'll have Shacklebolt start the interviews then. Damn, never mind, he's dead. Did Moody survive?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Dawlish, then. No, wait. Bloody hell, do I have any Aurors left? Sod it, get Weasley down here and have him do it. I know for a fact that one's alive, had to tie him to a chair myself to keep him at the Ministry when the Aurors left."

A ghost of a smile flitted around the headmaster's face. "Yes, I heard he tried to Floo here chair and all. A Mr. Perkins finally locked him in a closet."

"At least he's alive." She moodily refilled her glass. "Arthur Weasley is on loan from the Ministry for as long as you need him. Man's erratic, but steady and rather clever. He can have a team of any three people he needs, on Ministry pay, preferably volunteers as I'm already short-staffed. He reports only to you or I, and I want copies of the interviews and witness accounts. Anyone in particular he need ask about? One of the missing?"

"A few of the students in Slytherin house are unaccounted for. And Hermione Granger."


	2. Enter Narcissa

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE! This fic will involve sorcery, character death, swear words, an American writer attempting British English and generalised Lilith mayhem.

**Chapter 2**

A plump woman all in green gently lifted her patient's pale arm, washing the gore and dirt away with a warm cloth. She moved rapidly but with practised gentleness, cleansing away blood and worse, and dressing the wounds with murtlap essence. The wan little face was bruised; more angry purplish marks blossomed on the white skin hidden beneath the sheets. A front line fighter, this one. Either very lucky or very good; from what the nurse had heard, most of the front liners had died.

"Is she awake yet?" The voice from the hallway was cultured, harsh, and feminine. Rebecca brushed thick hair out of the child's face. Clearly, not lucky. The girl must just be very good.

"I couldn't guarantee that she will ever wake up. It looks as if she's absorbed dozens of curses, I can't even count all the hex-marks."

Air hissed between sharp little teeth. "And, in your great wisdom, can you tell me if she will _live_?"

The nurse shrugged, noncommital. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Pointed heels clicked on the bare wooden floor and an icy aura swept just into the room. The voice strained for a semblance of caring. "Is there anything I can get for you that may help her? Anything at all?"

Rebecca pursed her lips, thinking, as she cleared away the bath things. "Blood replenishing potion. Murtlap essence." She sniffed at an empty beaker. "I'm out of Skele-Mend, and she'll need at least six more doses."

"Six!"

"Aye, six. Broken pelvises don't mend themselves, you know," came the insufferably smug reply. "She'll need a top-notch tonic once daily for the next week. New robes, certainly, the ones she was wearing are in ruins."

"Anything else?" The nurse heard the cool blonde's temper slipping. She sipped of her anger, enjoying this small, sweet taste of revenge, minor though it was.

"Food, preferably good broth until she's strong enough to take something else. Are you going to kill her, Narcissa?"

The question, asked without warning, startled the blonde into answering truthfully. "No." _Damned woman. Too clever by half._ "No, I currently have no plans to kill her."

"She's a hostage then." The nurse continued in a pleasant, conversational tone. "Before you had me snatched from St. Mungo's, word was that your ilk had killed the niece of the Minister. I don't recall Amelia Bones being noted for her mercy, and I'll bet she's downright bloodthirsty at the moment. Don't you think?"

Silence. Rebecca kept up the chit-chat, thoroughly convinced that she would be killed as soon as the hostage was well on the mend, no matter what. In the meantime, she would have her bit of fun with her old classmate. "And how is Lucius?"

"Lucius is dead, thank you for inquiring."

She tut-tutted. "Inconvenient. Killed attacking children, oh, that must sting the infamous Malfoy pride. Hope it was painful. How much longer do you think it will be before the Aurors come to drag you to Azkaban?"

No answer. That one must have hit home. "And did your darling boy die as bravely as his father?"

"My darling boy is not dead-"

"Yet."

"And he will not die, not if I have anything to say about it. You have four hours to wake that girl or I shall kill you both and find a healthier hostage."

"Don't forget the Skele-Mend," Rebecca called after the departing woman.

Arthur sat by the bedside of his youngest son and awkwardly took his hand. He ran a thumb caressingly down the boy's palm and back up again, tracing the lifeline. It didn't seem fair, really. Death, like a vulture to a ripe carcass, had swooped down on the school that morning; without remorse, without regard for tenderness of years or goodness of heart. He looked at his boy, his youngest boy, as tall as a man and perhaps as scarred as a man. But still just a boy. One child of many, one child in a whole school full of them.

"I'm so sorry, Ron. I wanted to be here... I _tried_ to be here. It's not fair."

Another boy, all dark unruly hair and awkward boyish limbs and white bandages, plopped down in a chair across from him. He observed Mr. Weasley's lip wobbling uncontrollably.

"Mr. Weasley, Ron's only asleep. Madam Pomfrey says he'll wake up any time now," he said, as uneasy in the role of comforter as in the role of hero. He reached out and patted the man's hand. "Ron's fine. Barely a scratch."

Arthur shook his head and gripped his son's hand more firmly. How could he possibly explain a father's guilt? Other men were now collecting the bodies of their dead sons. Arthur sat here by the side of his youngest boy, healthy and _alive_. Warm. Breathing. He clutched the hand of his son and wept openly at the unfairness of life, in which the good died young and a man could be so damned grateful that it had been someone else's son.

Madam Pomfrey observed the wreckage that was Arthur Weasley and prepared another Calming Draught. She was handing out such potions like sweets today; the distraught, the grieving, the emotionally scarred and the Healers who were reaching the limits of their ability to function within the ramifications of a school turned battleground turned hospital. She tapped an upended beaker the get the last glistening drop and made a mental note to ask Severus to refill her supply at the soonest.

Damn.

Don't think about it. It wasn't- hadn't- happened. Push it all back, and down, until it disappeared and wasn't even a bad memory. Nothing untoward here, just a school nurse having a rather busier day than normal. Yes. That was a much more comfortable thought. She shot a glare at a pair of third years huddled near the door and shushed them. Patients needed quiet and rest, and Arthur certainly needed a Calming Draught.

"You two, if you've nothing better to do then fetch me Calming Draughts, Draught of Peace and sleep potions from Professor Snape's stores. Bring me anything else that looks useful, while you're at it. He's busy at the moment, but you'll find them in his office, in the cupboard behind his desk."

The pair exchanged looks and the bravest spoke up hesitantly. "Ma'am... we're sorry, maybe you hadn't heard, but-"

"Move along, move along." She flipped a hand at them. "Hop to it, now, I haven't got all day and I'm running low. Murtlap tentacles too, if he has any. Do you need a list?"

"No ma'am."

"Then off with you."

She bustled over to Ron Weasley's bed and administered the potion to Arthur, giving The Look to Potter, whom she distinctly recalled was not allowed out of bed yet and reminded him of such.

"Plenty of people needed that bed more than I did," he said simply.

Poppy looked around, at her full infirmary and the spare beds spilling out into the hall. The boy had a point.

"Madam Pomfrey, has Hermione been found yet?"

"I haven't seen her, Mr. Potter, but seeing as you're feeling so healthy, you're free to look around. Perhaps she's in the hall, or being interviewed. Hold up, young man, before you go rushing off like that you're on the understanding that I will allow you to _walk_ about the hallways and make inquiries, on the condition that you are not to leave the castle, you are to eat something as soon as possible, and you are to spend the rest of the night in your dormitory. _Resting_. Are we clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."


	3. Harry Intervenes

1Okay, all, I'm new to and clearly did my previous two uploads all sorts of wrong. It took me a little bit to figure out why my stuff looked different from other works I've read here, and then I just couldn't be arsed to conform. I might upload new edited versions of the first two chapters with things like, oh, a disclaimer or some such thing. Speaking of which:

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE! This fic will involve sorcery, character death, swear words, an American writer attempting British English and generalised Lilith mayhem.

Summary: I'm into politics, realism and plot twists. Expect all three in large doses.

Summary (no, really, I mean it this time): The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux is anything but a party. On a more personal note, Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione's future becomes a political bargaining chip.

Shout-outs! American-born-confused-desi, the term is found in dictionaries. I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. Ladder and Pazed- thankee, thankee.

Shall we get on with it? 

**Chapter 3**

You know, the surprising thing was that he felt so damned clear-headed. Maybe it was one of the potions Madam Pomfrey had poured down his gob in that hour immediately after, when he had been tractable and waiting for the thing to sink in. Harry had attributed his lucidity at first to a lingering adrenaline rush, but that had faded hours ago to leave the rather stupefying realisation that the final duel had been, well... anticlimactic. Nice big word, that one, Hermione would be proud of him.

The halls were far too crowded. Beds lined the stone walls, and crushes of people moved among them. Parents, coming to the school in droves now that word had gotten out, looked for their children with stricken faces, students looked for their friends, and Healers demonstrated inhuman patience in fending off all as they moved about the beds, treating patients. He moved among them carefully, checking for a distinctive bushy head of hair, with no luck. Down on the second floor, there was more room to breathe and slightly less despair. Not much more room than outside the hospital wing, though; chairs, not beds, lined the walls and thorough interviews were underway. He heard snatches of them as he meandered past.

"Did you _see_ Draco Malfoy among the Death Eaters, or could it have been someone else?"

"And what colour light did that spell give off?"

"It was just like he said, I was right next to him, she took two Stunners, a Blasting Curse and a Cruciatus almost at the same time, and those were just what I could see. They must have wanted her down really bad."

It was a bit easier to search here, as more people were seated in chairs waiting their turn than milling about. Conversation slowed as he walked by, and that spot in between his shoulder blades prickled with the annoying weight of eyes watching him. He quickened his pace, not in the mood for it. Dumbledore had heard the entire story from him already; if anyone wanted to hear Harry's tale, they could jolly well ask the headmaster. He flushed when the whispers reached his ears, too discreet to make out, exactly, but not near discreet enough. Was this a mere forerunner of the rest of his life? Sly peeks at his forehead, whispers when they thought he couldn't hear, eyes watching him when they thought he wouldn't see? That was a rather nasty thought.

"Harry!"

Dammit. Ignore them.

"Hey, Harry!"

It wasn't very loud at first but it startled him anyway. Reckon he was still a bit jumpy, what with the cataclysmic battle for the future of wizard kind and all that.

Good god, they weren't. It grew louder. _They were._

They were giving him a standing ovation. The faces around him were bleak, tired and utterly without joy, yet the noise swelled to a thundering crescendo

Harry fervently wished that the floor would open and swallow him whole. If Hermione were any sort of friend, she would appear at his elbow right now and lead him off to safety. Someone thumped him on the back. Any time now, Hermione.

"Harry!" Professor Lupin was fighting his way through the throng.

"Professor Lupin," Harry said, relieved. The older man grabbed his hand and pulled him through the watching crowd, the applause dying away once the unenthusiastic recipient was out of earshot. Professor Lupin tugged him down the corridors, looking sombre. Sombre was Lupin's usual expression though, and not remarkably out of place.

"Pumpkin juice."

"Huh?" Harry had not noticed where they were going, and was baffled by Lupin's remark until he heard stone moving. The gargoyles guarding the headmaster's office rolled away to reveal the staircase.

"Dumbledore would like a word, Harry." Lupin looked suspiciously sympathetic. Harry's eyes narrowed and he stayed where he was.

"About what?"

Lupin quietly implored him. "Up the stairs, Harry."

For Lupin, his dad's and godfather's old friend, Harry would do most anything. He climbed the stairs, knowing he would likely regret this.

A fire crackled in the hearth, its cheery light bouncing on the walls. Scrolls of parchment littered the headmaster's desk, with an untouched tray to one side, and a quill, curiously animated to write on a scroll that unrolled as the quill needed. Dumbledore was there, as was Mundungus Fletcher and Professor McGonagall. Lupin joined them.

"Harry. Please, have a seat." Dumbledore indicated a cosy-looking stuffed chair.

"No thanks," Harry said, still suspicious. "I'll stand."

"As you prefer." The headmaster's thin fingers rested on the parchment briefly, without disturbing the busy scratchings of the quill. "You've been looking for Miss Granger, as have we. The interviews aren't nearly close to being completed yet, but we do have word about her."

Harry perked up. "Where is she? She's not in the hospital wing."

Dumbledore hesitated; not the hesitation of one who doesn't plan to disclose information, but more the hesitation of one looking for the right words. "It appears that she isn't even at Hogwarts. Both Seamus Finnegan and Colin Creevey, house mates of yours, saw her become separated from you and Mr. Weasley, and believe they saw her fall shortly after. No, let me finish, Harry. Though the exact circumstances are inconsistent, this seems to be relatively accurate. The pair of you were distracted- indeed, I think we all were- by the appearance then of Lord Voldemort. You know how that part of the battle ended from there."

Harry nodded. Dumbledore continued. "You might recall several Death Eaters positioned near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Shortly after Lord Voldemort died, two students claim to have seen one of these Death Eaters run to the fallen Miss Granger, and pick her up and carry her away."

He felt slightly sick. "The Death Eaters have her? But I saw, those ones didn't get away. They had no where to run."

Dumbledore nodded. "And we have several eyewitness accounts to verify that. Those particular Death Eaters are now awaiting the Minister's pleasure. However, Professor McGonagall has personally searched the area agreed upon as the one where Miss Granger had fallen. She isn't there."

Harry's face was the very picture of bafflement.

"There's a bit more," Dumbledore continued gently. "Draco Malfoy, on order of his head of house, barricaded himself, as well as several other of his house mates, in the Slytherin common room. As best we can figure, at approximately the same time as the Ministry was subduing the last few Death Eaters on the school grounds, someone Floo'ed into the Slytherin common room. This person collected young Mr. Malfoy and left Hogwarts by the same method. The description we have isn't a good one, but it appears that this person was robed in black and carrying someone. Someone unconscious."

Harry furrowed his brow in thought, until the seemingly unrelated facts came together. "Malfoy," he spat, leaping to his feet with wand in hand. "I'll kill him."

Lupin intercepted him on his way to the door. "Harry, please, this won't help."

"Let go of me!"

Lupin's face was sympathetic, but he maintained his hold. "So you can do what?"

"Get Hermione, of course!"

"And where will you go get her?" Harry's struggles grew weaker, and then stopped.

"Malfoy Manor," he said, though his words lacked the irate strength of moments before.

Lupin let him go, and patted his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "If you know something we don't, feel free to tell us, Harry. Like the location of Malfoy Manor, or maybe the guarantee that she's truly there and not some other hideaway."

Mundungus looked up from his examination of some of Dumbledore's more curious possessions. "I warned you that he shouldn't be told."

"Nonsense," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "He's one of her best friends. I wasn't going to leave him to wander the hallways, wondering what had become of her."

"Better than trying to keep 'im from bounding off to God-knows-where."

"While both of you have good points," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, "I believe it is now a moot issue. Harry, we would all like nothing more than to fetch Miss Granger back this instant. As Remus has pointed out to you, however, circumstances are a bit more complicated than that. The good news is that we have contacted the Minister, and she has taken a personal hand in matters. Malfoy Manor has been placed under surveillance; the moment they can confirm that either Malfoy is present, they will move in."

"I want you there," Harry said immediately, and was treated to the sight of Dumbledore being completely flabbergasted.

"You're the best," Harry explained. "If she's alive, they'll kill her if they think the Ministry is watching. They might kill her anyway if the Ministry doesn't move fast enough. I want you there."

"That's perfectly understandable, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, "but we've no reason to think that the Death Eaters still at large won't stage another attack on Hogwarts. Some of our best students were killed, and many are injured. The headmaster cannot leave Hogwarts undefended."

"But Harry has an excellent argument, and neither can I sacrifice the welfare of one student known to be in danger to protect many students who may be in danger." Professor Dumbledore looked at McGonagall. "That's why you should go, Minerva. If you wish to, of course."

The professor sputtered. "Naturally I wish to, Albus, but... are you sure the Ministry won't object? That I will be necessary?"

"I think it's a brilliant idea," Harry said. "And the Ministry doesn't need to know you're there."

Dumbledore smiled.


	4. The Plot Thickens

I'm working on chapter ten as we speak, so thought I ought to get off my bum and actually post. There will be at least one more update this week to make up for my long dry spell. Hannah Marder and Cromm are my betas and they rock so effing much.

Summary: The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux is anything but a party. On a more personal note, Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione's future becomes a political bargaining chip.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE! This fic will involve sorcery, character death, swear words, an American writer attempting British English and generalised Lilith mayhem.

Thanks to Lady Jayne and Pazed for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Narcissa shut the heavy book with a snap, and replaced it on the high shelf where it belonged. She ran a slim finger down the spines of several more books, then decided she had the information she required.

"Did you ever, at any point in time, leave your common room after it started?" She turned to face her son. He was lolled on an antique chaise, one leg thrown over the back carelessly, wearing the same indifferent expression he had since she started her questioning.

"As I've already told you, Mum, Professor Snape sent Nott and I to the dungeons almost immediately. He said it would be best for us to stay out of sight watching the first years. Just in case, you know."

Certainly. Just in case the Death Eaters lost. Severus, always cool under fire, had even been foresighted enough to provide the sons of two Death Eaters with a handy alibi. Just in case. She blessed the right thinking of Severus and his position at the school. Still, there was something in her son's expression... When he had been just a small boy, Draco had never been able to pull one over on her. She trusted that, even with seven years of absence, she still knew him well enough to read him like an open book.

"Mum, when's Dad coming back?" Draco inquired with a degree of impatience. "He promised to tell me all about it. I didn't get to see a thing, and it sounded awfully exciting."

Her heart lurched, and she dodged the question. "It was a means to an end, Draco, and nothing I found worth getting excited over. I'm sure you'll hear all about it soon enough."

With practised discretion, she peeked out the library's curtains and scanned the grounds. Dusk was coming on, and shadows lay as long fingers groping the lawns. They were out there, she knew it, even if she could not see them. Out there waiting. Likely waiting for it to get dark enough to provide cover. She had perhaps another hour at most.

She collected fresh parchment from a desk. It was from her personal supply; thick, cream-coloured and expensive. She withdrew from another drawer a particular quill. It was reserved for only the most important of missives, and was long, thin and made of a black feather of unidentifiable origins. The nib looked horribly sharp. She took out another quill, her favourite for writing and well used.

"Come with me, Draco."

He heaved himself off the chaise and followed her, out of the library and down wide stairs. She noted that for all his bloodthirsty desire for details of this morning's battle, he was unusually subdued. She shelved that observation for later, when she had time to set him down for a long heart-to-heart over cups of hot chocolate. They had just received a lovely batch of imported stuff, laced with hints of raspberry. Draco would like that.

Inside ground floor drawing room, Draco helped her push aside a fourteenth century chair (beautiful mahogany, one of her favourites) and she rolled up the carpet with a flick of her wand, to reveal a heavy iron trapdoor. They descended into a hidden antechamber, Narcissa tapped the ceiling twice to replace the rug, and her son manhandled open the thick ironbound door to the main chamber.

The room was painted a stark white, so pale it jangled the nerves. Some Malfoy ancestor had created this room for the purpose of housing Dark items and the white expanse was a safety measure; it reflected light intensely, and an overabundance of light weakened most Dark items, making them easier to handle. Currently the room was occupied by only a bed and work table, as well as two women.

Draco's eyes lit up with anticipation. "You never did tell me what we're going to do with the Mudblood, Mum."

"All in due time."

His face fell, much as a boy who had been denied second helpings of pudding. Narcissa indulged in a momentary pang of something akin to pity. Or maybe remorse. Useless emotions either way, at this point, and quickly stifled.

The nurse, seated bedside, was watching the pair of them with her lips quirked in amusement. She dismissively ignored Narcissa and her son after a moment and resumed spoon-feeding broth into the girl's mouth. This vastly annoyed Narcissa; it implied that she did not have the upper hand.

"Have a seat, Draco. This might take a while." Narcissa conjured a high-backed chair for herself and pulled it to the table, seating herself comfortably and spreading parchment and quills out within handy reach. Running over her course of action in her mind, she quelled a sudden smirk.

"Rebecca, would you say that you are taking care of this girl?" The question was artfully phrased to sound innocuous. The annoying git of a woman did not disappoint her.

"Naturally," came the immediate response.

"And thus you are her caretaker?"

"Yes, that would be another way to state the obvious."

"Being that 'caretaker' is a synonym for 'guardian', then you are also her guardian."

The poncy little swot's eyes narrowed, but she was not nearly suspicious enough. "Yes," she answered slowly, "I suppose you could say that I am the girl's guardian. I will certainly do my best to guard her from the likes of you."

Perfect. Narcissa couldn't have asked for a better response. She smiled warmly. "Lovely. Then, as you are her guardian, you are capable of entering negotiations on her behalf when she is not able to take part in her own interests."

Madam Poncy Swot ceased her feeding and glanced at the girl. Her patient's eyes were open, yes, but they had the glazed, blank look of one who was barely conscious and only minimally aware of her surroundings. Narcissa's order to wake her had been heeded, but tempered with strong painkilling potions that affected the senses temporarily. It had really been the only humane way to allow the girl to remain conscious.

She set the cup of broth on the table and mustered a forceful demeanour. "I take it you wish to have me negotiate the terms of her release."

Narcissa's smile widened. Better and better. "Exactly so, my dear. Please sign the top of this parchment as witness and guardian for the girl. Her name is Hermione Granger, be sure to spell it correctly. No, no, not that quill. This one."

Her Right Royal Swottiness gasped with the first strokes of the quill, and Narcissa noted with satisfaction that a line of blood welled up on the back of the other woman's hand. She continued to write though, assuredly thinking it merely some sick joke of her captor's. Draco watched the proceedings with smirking interest. When she had finished, Narcissa took quill and parchment back and added her own signature and notation to the top. She, it couldn't help but be noted, did not flinch. She let Draco take the quill when she was done, which he examined thoroughly.

"Now," Narcissa said, all efficiency once the tricky part was past, "to negotiate the terms of her marriage contract."

Swotty McSwotty Pants' face reddened in anger. "And who, precisely, is she marrying?"

"My son."

"_What?_" The exclamation was strangely echoed, coming as it was from both the nurse and Draco. He swore, having pricked himself with the black quill, and stuck his injured thumb in his mouth.

"But Mum-" he said indignantly around his bleeding thumb. Narcissa gently removed it from his mouth.

"How many times, Draco? When we cut ourselves on Dark items, we don't stick the bleeding bits in our mouths."

"But _Mum_. She's a _Mudblood_."

"And I certainly won't inflict your horrid, beastly spawn on some unsuspecting girl. I won't do it."

Draco nodded fervently. "I'm not marrying some Mudblood, Mum, she's a right little monster. A dirty-blooded, foul little monster! Have you gone mental?"

Narcissa pulled out her wand and stuck the tip against the nurse's throat. "I'm afraid the fact of marriage is not part of the negotiations."

The nurse's eyes flashed. "The Ministry will be here any time now."

"Pity, because you'll be dead by then." Narcissa ignored, for the moment, Draco's increasingly shrill objections and stared down her former classmate. She dug the tip of her wand further into the soft flesh of her neck, just to emphasise the point.

"All right," the nurse said at last. "Fine. But this contract will cost you dearly."

"What ever makes you happy. Draco, if you cannot keep a still tongue in your head then I shall silence it for you."

"But _Mum_!" She swung the wand to point it directly at his face. He quieted immediately, his face pale.

"Son," she said gently, trying to soften the shock, "there is more to life than our personal preferences and immediate happiness. Ever so much more. So shut it."


	5. Pawn to Queen

1

Summary: The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux is anything but a party. On a more personal note, Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione's future becomes a political bargaining chip.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Rated for character death, reference to violence and adult themes.

You will be delighted to know that Fait Accompli is Veritaserum's Fan Fic of the Week. I am sure delighted.

Hanah Marder, my beta the first, has her fic _The French Correction_ featured on a writers' website. Which just goes to prove that my betas PWN, including Cromm, my beta the second.

Lader I do but try. I rather thought this was a slightly original idea, so you're breaking my heart that it isn't, but at least I'm doing it better than the other such plots you've read. Go me. Hopefully you shall find in time that even the basic premise of D/Hr has more to it than it appears.

**Chapter 5: Pawn to Queen**

The negotiations were quick and brutal. Narcissa held firm to only three clauses in the contract, though those clauses were horrible enough. The nurse demanded outrageous concessions in return, and Narcissa wished rather desperately that she could simply kill the obnoxious woman right now and have done with it. Cold logic whittled away tiny bits of the other woman's demands as improbable, and finally Narcissa set it all down on the parchment, in plain ink this time. She blew on the ink to dry it.

"Agreed then?"

"Agreed."

The parchment was pushed across the table to Draco. "Sign it, sweetie."

He mutely refused, arms folded rebelliously across his chest. Suddenly, a clanging noise reverberated throughout the manor house, loud and insistent. Narcissa looked up in alarm.

"Sign it _now_, Draco!"

Resentfully, he glared at her, but he pulled the parchment to him. She handed him the black quill. He winced as he signed his name, and almost put his hand in his mouth again before he caught her eye.

"Now the girl," Narcissa said, ignoring the ever-increasing noise from upstairs. The nurse appeared to be about to refuse, triumphant that rescue was at hand, until Narcissa dug her wand into that fat neck once more.

"I have nothing to lose now," she said coldly. "It would be a shame for you to die this close to freedom."

With a glare equally as resentful as Draco's had been, the nurse placed the parchment on the girl's lap and the black quill in her hand. Unseeing eyes vaguely looked her way as she instructed the girl to sign the contract. The girl nodded fuzzily and her hand formed a familiar scrawl. A bloody signature blossomed on the back of her hand.

Narcissa picked up the contract carefully, almost weeping with relief. "Done, then."

Shouts came from upstairs, and the sound of heavy feet. Narcissa winced at the thought of their muddy boots dirtying her floors. She delicately dipped the quill's sharp tip into an open vial on the table and drew the nib across the wooden surface, peering at the wet smear left behind. Flecks of blood from the quill dotted it. She carefully inhaled the scent of the potion and screwed up her eyes in thought.

"A dreamless sleep potion." The nurse nodded. "I think you ought to take this."

"You think... beg pardon?"

"I think you should take it," Narcissa repeated. "You yourself said that the Minister is likely feeling bloodthirsty at the moment. While I'm sure someone at St. Mungo's had to have heard the fuss you put up, and they are ascribing your unknown whereabouts to suspected foul play, it would be wise for you to appear the unconscious victim when the cavalry comes storming in with vengeance on their minds. Don't you think?"

"As much as I might cherish the sight of you being led away in chains, for once you may have a point." Here the nurse glanced with revulsion at the signed contract. "Very well."

Narcissa watched her drain the vial and, when the last drop was swallowed, turned to her son.

"Go let them in, Draco."

"Why? They'll never find us."

"Because I told you to, that's why."

The little boy inside the almost-man responded to the stern command before he had time to think about it. Obeying Mum was a force of habit. Only when he was out of earshot did Narcissa allow herself a vicious smirk at the nurse, whose head was drooping onto her abundant bosom. It was shameful, really, for a Healer to be so forgetful about her potions. Any halfwit knew the sole difference between a dreamless sleep potion and Silent Death was human blood. She carefully wiped the quill clean on the corpse's robes and composed herself for what was coming.

Draco listened to the thumps from the drawing room above him, and tapped the antechamber's ceiling three times with his wand. He smirked at the sound of cursing as the rug rolled up above his head; from the sound of it, he had managed to knock over at least three people.

He heaved the trap door open. "Hullo there. Whatever took you so long?"

He left the trap door open and scurried back down the steps before anyone could think to get their wands out. No sense pushing his luck there. Mum was seated at the table still, next to the slumbering nurse, and he leaned up against it in an attempt to appear nonchalant as the room rapidly filled with Aurors- angry Aurors. The Minister broke through the ranks; her eyes lit hungrily upon the pair of Malfoys, the slumped Healer and the wan form of Miss Granger. Teeth flashed in a feral smile.

"Narcissa Malfoy, " she began in ringing tones, "you are under arrest for the kidnapping of one Hermione Granger. You will surrender your wand at once."

Looking almost bored, Narcissa held out the wand. A skittish young man, barely out of the pimply stage, gingerly took it from her and retreated to safety. The barest hint of a dimple flashed; she was thoroughly amused by their too obvious fear of her.

"Lovely." The Minister seemed to swell, and every word was pronounced with relish. "You are hereby sentenced to death, execution to take place in three weeks time."

A ripple went through the crowded Aurors and one manicured eyebrow shot up of its own accord. "Kidnapping is not a capital crime."

"Ask me if I give a damn." Amelia Bones turned to Draco, her face still frozen in a mad caricature of glee. "Draco Malfoy, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of one Hermione Granger. Surrender your wand at once."

Narcissa saw her son's cheek twitch, just once. He was scared. "I'm afraid there's a little snag there, Minister," she said calmly. She picked up the parchment and waved it once. "Draco had no part in any crime, and even if he did you couldn't arrest him."

"Bollocks," Madam Bones snapped. "You've only your word that he- a Malfoy!- has done nothing wrong. I find that less than sufficient, especially with the girl in question lying right there behind the pair of you. Furthermore, I don't care if I have to charge him with spitting in the streets, he will be arrested, charged, tried and executed. Maybe in that order, maybe not."

Narcissa waved the parchment once more and Madam Bones snatched it from her hand, giving it a cursory glance. "What a load of tosh," she said dismissively, throwing the contract to the floor. "_Incendio_."

The contract lay on the stone floor, burning merrily. Well, there were flames anyway. Madam Bones glared at the parchment for a few more moments and then put out the fire with a look of supreme disgust.

"So you've _Impervius_'ed it. Means nothing. You two, take the boy's wand and let's get out of here. This house reeks."

A grey tabby, all but unnoticed, darted between legs to sniff at the parchment. As Narcissa stood to get between her son and the Aurors, Minerva McGonagall appeared ostensibly from out of thin air and strode forward, the parchment clutched in her hand.

"What exactly is the meaning of this?"

"Minerva," Madam Bones exclaimed, startled. "Where the devil..."

"Harry asked that I be present," the teacher said shortly, by way of explanation. She thrust the contract under Narcissa's nose and shook it. "Explain this."

"It's quite simple." Narcissa carefully searched for the right words. This woman would be a good ally, even unwittingly. Especially unwittingly. "The Minister has decided that my son is to be executed without benefit of a trial, or evidence. She wishes to use him as a sacrificial pawn to assuage public outcry; I was forced to take steps."

Minerva spun incredulously on the Minister. "Amelia!"

Madam Bones shrugged. "His father was You-Know-Who's top Death Eater. With or without evidence, you can't tell me the boy's an innocent."

"He is a _student_! A _child_!"

"Lucius Malfoy killed Susan!"

"Then I shall fetch Lucius Malfoy's body and you can execute _him! _Since when is vengeance a matter of law, Amelia?"

The Minister gesticulated wildly, spittle flying from the corner of her mouth. "If people hadn't been so soft the first time, Lucius Malfoy would have been executed years ago and Susan would still be alive! But no, due to technicalities and delicate sensibilities, people who we didn't have enough evidence on and yet were nevertheless guilty as sin were let free! I won't have it, Minerva, and you can't stop me!" she shrieked, bursting into tears.

The assembled Aurors, mostly trainees with little to no field experience, stood aghast at this outburst, unsure of what to do. It was by now painfully obvious that this was no longer the straightforward raid they had planned on. For the moment Minerva allowed Madam Bones to grieve, perusing the document more carefully. Her thin lips pressed together until they almost disappeared.

"Amelia, you should have the Aurors take Mrs. Malfoy into custody, and bring someone in to see to Miss Granger and this Healer. As to young Mr. Malfoy, it seems that the course of prudence would be to take him and this contract to Dumbledore."

"I will not allow him to go free."

"Frankly, Amelia, at this point in time I don't think you have a choice. I won't risk Miss Granger just because you have a vendetta."

At last, Narcissa allowed her smirk to escape. Pale cheeks dimpled spitefully at the Minister. "Checkmate."


	6. Best Laid Plans

Summary: The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux is anything but a party. On a more personal note, Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione's future becomes a political bargaining chip.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Rated for character death, reference to violence and adult themes.

My betas are the bestest ever, and I shall sing them songs and feed them cupcakes. Hannah is sekritly an EVIL person - Cromm somewhat more openly. Still, betas are in fashion, yo. All the cool kids have at least one.

Lader - you flatter me, which is naturally a reason to love you. Pander to me! Whogirl, ask and ye shall receive.

Note that neither quote is part of any song, and also happen to be so very within public domain.

* * *

"The best laid schemes o' mice and men  
Gang aft a-gley,  
And leave us naught but grief and pain  
For promised joy."  
-- Robert Burns, "To a Mouse"

"_Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." John Lennon_

**Chapter 6: The Best Laid Plans**

A fire crackled in the hearth, its light bouncing around the Gryffindor common room. Early April sunshine teasingly beckoned at the window, proof of both the beauty in a spring day and the redundancy of lighting a fire, but a fire in the hearth was such a necessary thing in times like this. It signified home and comfort and warmth; notions that were as a soothing balm to the students' souls. It also was handy to sit about and stare at when one really wanted only to shut one's mind off and cease thinking for an hour or five.

Ron and Harry were doing just that and little else, besides occasionally scratching at a spot of pinkish new skin only recently released from a bandage. Hermione would have made them quit worrying at it, if she had been there. Harry scowled at the flames and scratched his elbow harder, as if to rebuke her for not being present to make him stop.

"That'll scar if you don't stop," Ron said absently, scratching his own chin.

They paused and looked at each other. This was their cue to laugh at their own adolescent absurdity. They went back to staring at the fire.

"We ought to eat something," Ron said half-heartedly. He stood and Harry nodded.

"Bring me some chicken if you can."

"You know, Harry, it's about time you go eat with the rest of us. You have to face people eventually."

Harry stared listlessly at the fire, wanting to scowl at it again but, frankly, not caring enough to bother. Ron had been bringing him food filched from the Gryffindor table or the kitchens for two weeks now, ever since Ron had been released from the clutches of the school nurse. It was cumbersome, not to mention messy, but preferable to running the gauntlet of awed stares from his classmates and the odd family member. They worshipped him. They revered him. Sometimes they seemed to be even afraid of him. No longer was he the Boy Who Lived; now he was the Boy Who Had Conquered, their hero, their saviour, their god-among-men. It was all just a little creepy.

"It'll die down, Harry. It has to," Ron said with uncharacteristic reasonableness. "I mean, it's over. You did it. There's nothing left for you to do, so they'll eventually have to stop watching you and waiting for another Potter fit of heroics. It'll get boring staring at your mug, if nothing else."

He pondered this. Was it possible that at some point, perhaps years from now, people would actually leave him be? To be normal? To be... well, to be just Harry? He realised then just how long it had been since he had considered the future, his future, and what things might be like afterward. After the killing was done and the living began. He realised that he wasn't sure how to go about living.

"The sooner, the better, mate," Ron said to fill Harry's silence. Apt words regardless.

"Yeah." Harry nodded and stood. "Yeah, the sooner the better. Besides, I'm getting sick of sandwiches and squashed cake."

They made their way down to the Great Hall, passing signs of recent repairs and hallways still cordoned off. The castle was not yet healed entirely, but progress was being made. The rumour was that classes were to start again next week, perhaps. There were still scores of students in the infirmary, so that may have been just a rumour. The halls were nevertheless packed with people, most family members had elected to temporarily move to Hogwarts to be with their children in the violent aftermath. Hogwarts was safe, after all. None of the parents who spent their waking hours in the hospital wing with their children saw the irony in that assumption. Dumbledore, perhaps seeing the futility and inefficiency in sending away scores of injured students to St Mungo's, which couldn't handle them all anyway, and their anxious parents, who were determined to haunt one bedside or another and didn't care where they did it, had opened every available room and bed. Quarters were cramped, but people were content enough. At least no one else had died after that day, and all that was left was a bit of crowded discomfort while the healing took place.

Ron and Harry took the first spare seats they could find in the Great Hall. There were far too many people to worry about niceties such as sitting at the 'proper' House table. Harry kept his eyes on his plate and shovelled steak-and-kidney pie into his mouth methodically, the fine hairs on his neck standing up. He could feel the eyes on him. Ron was right, though; after a time, eating their dinner became more interesting than ogling a teenaged boy at his supper, and they went about their own business. Harry even took a large helping of treacle tart, albeit eating it with great speed.

Leaving the Great Hall, he decided that it hadn't been nearly so bad as he had imagined. They had only looked at him, after all. He could handle that. Right? Their feet tread the familiar path to the hospital wing, the same route they had taken three times every day since Hermione had been rescued from Malfoy Manor. Their steps slowed at almost the exact spot, too. Both had begun to dread these visits since yesterday. Since Hermione had woken up. By choice, it had become their lot to tell Hermione what had transpired in Malfoy Manor. Truth be told, they were each trying to think of a way to tell her without making it sound quite so bad. The problem was, that wasn't really possible.

Ron and Harry had been summoned to Dumbledore's office late on the same night Hermione came back to Hogwarts. The headmaster had been spare, blunt even, in relaying the tale to them. Professor McGonagall had shown them the accompanying document- with signatures. Both had instantly demanded to right to kill Malfoy.

"Trust me, my boys, that sentiment is shared," Professor McGonagall had said heatedly.

"And misplaced," Dumbledore had interjected, "as I believe I've already discussed with you, Professor. Young Mr. Malfoy is no more pleased about this than you are, and indeed offered me the entire Malfoy estate if I could find a way out of it. It seems he would rather be a pauper than married to Miss Granger. This was his mother's doing, and something which I cannot undo, as you may recall, Harry."

Harry had recalled. He had been in a slightly similar fix during his fourth year. "It is a binding contract," Dumbledore had explained, "an unpleasant, unthinkable and most unfortunate one, but binding nonetheless."

It was then that the pair had insisted on being the bearers of bad news. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Her best friends should tell her and be with her when the ramifications became clear. Sure. An easy and obvious notion, the true difficulty of which only hit home in the quiet of the common room. They had looked at each other then and understood that there was no way to tell a friend that her life and future had been bought and paid for.

Ron had broken their gaze first and stared aimlessly about the common room. Then, with an eerie keening wail, he had raised his wand and destroyed a lamp. Then another one. Then a chair. Blasting the common room to bits hadn't struck Harry as a productive venture but it seemed to make Ron feel better, so whatever. Harry had shooed away students attracted to the noise - which was rather impressive - and followed Ron about, repairing the damage. Students made of lesser stuff than Harry had simply fled. As for Harry, he had looked beyond the violent mayhem to the anguish clearly written on his best friend's face and decided that being a little singed around the edges wasn't near so important as him being here when Ron ran out of things to break.

"It's not fair!" he had yelled. "It's not FAIR! We waited for so long, so bl-bloody long, and finally... _We had plans, Harry!_"

In a fit of supreme frustration, Ron had thrown his wand across the room and collapsed in a heap. He had sniffled. Just once, yet that small sound frightened Harry more than the explosions.

"We didn't want you to be gooseberry."

Harry had pondered that for a moment and sat down next to his best friend. Ron had swiped his robe across his nose and sniffled again.

"We had it all planned, Harry. Hermione was going to apply for that Arithmancer's apprenticeship in Versailles as soon as her NEWT scores came back. Professor Vector wrote her a recommendation. The twins have plans for a store in France and wanted me to operate it. We talked about it all the bl-bloody t-t-ime."

Harry really hadn't known what to do but listen. Ron had cleared his throat and continued in a rough voice. "There's a cottage just south of Versailles. Nice old place. Just enough room for two or three. Remus found it for us and the twins have already rented the place as part of my salary package. Mum's been hiding our housewarming gift for weeks. Charlie told me that it was the full set of Gerda Curd's cookbooks and a new kitchen table."

"We had it all planned, Harry. But you needed us. So we waited."


	7. Optimism in C Minor

Summary: The aftermath of Voldemort War- Part Deux is anything but a party. On a more personal note, Narcissa Malfoy imprisons her son in order to save him from a vengeful Ministry and Hermione's future becomes a political bargaining chip.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Rated for character death, reference to violence and adult themes.

Many thanks to Lader and Superpan for the reviews. Mmm, chock full of review-y goodness!

* * *

**Chapter 7: Optimism in C Minor**

_The basis of optimism is sheer terror. - Oscar Wilde_

Harry had held certain suspicions about Ron and Hermione for a couple of years now. Nothing had been so obvious as to allay suspicions one way or the other- but that was a moot point now.

So it was that, feet dragging piteously, the boys opened the door to the hospital wing and steeled themselves for the awfulness to come.

"Ron!" Her voice was a soft croak. Her arm lifted feebly off the blankets in an effort to wave. "Harry! Tell me you brought something for me to read. I'm horribly bored."

Ron frowned. "You sound awful. Hush it and let us do the talking."

He fussed with her blankets a bit and moved a glass of water closer on her night stand. Harry sat down and plucked nervously at his fingernails.

"You're so twitchy," Hermione rasped at last. She tugged at Ron's sleeve. "Sit down."

"I said don't talk, that can't be good for your voice."

"Vocal chords were bruised." Her fingers fluttered at her throat. "Along with everything else. Madam Pomfrey says I might be able to get out of here next week though. And if you don't want me to talk, then say something yourself."

Ron took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Changed his mind and sat down instead. "Look, Hermione..."

She looked at him patiently.

"Well... You see, Hermione, it's like this..."

"Yes?"

"Would you like something to drink? Because that water doesn't look a bit cold, and I'm sure something to drink would feel good right now, what with your throat and all, and-"

"Ron, you're babbling."

He looked down at her blanket and opened his mouth again. Closed it. Opened it and took a great breath.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Ron?"

Harry felt slightly sick just then. The expectant look on her face, the eagerness in her voice. Oh God, Ron, this isn't a good time, not now...

"Uh... Harry has something to tell you."

She rolled her eyes, ever so slightly, and turned to Harry. Pleasantly, enduringly, she was quite willing to tolerate their waffling for as long as they needed. Good thing, because Harry just could not tell her right now.

"Hermione, you've been sold to Malfoy to be his wife." Shit. _Shit._ Where had that come from? And was he the most tactless bastard ever or what?

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry's eyes pleaded with Ron to jump in and save him at any time, but Ron was resolutely staring at his kneecaps. "Well... okay, maybe 'sold' isn't the right word." Ron snorted derisively. "There's this contract, see. You get a bunch of money. Malfoy keeps his head on his shoulders. It'll all be over when it's done."

Sceptical eyes peered at him through thick hair. "Harry, that made no sense at all. Start at the beginning."

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay. Right. While you were at the Malfoy's place-"

"When was I at Malfoy's place? I don't even know where it is."

"Right. Well, um- do you recall that big battle here? When you got hurt?"

"Some of it, yes. All that happened before I was injured anyway."

"Sure. So. I killed Voldemort. Then Malfoy's mum kidnapped you, because you were lying on the ground and Ron and I didn't know where you were-"

"It's all right, Harry. It happens. Don't belabour the point. Malfoy's mum kidnapped me, and then?"

"Well, she took you to Malfoy Manor and came back for Malfoy. There was a nurse involved, but we're not sure how, since she's dead."

A vaguely interested light in those brown eyes. Maybe she remembered the nurse. "Go on."

"Yeah. Okay, so this nurse acted as your guardian- you were unconscious and incapable of speaking on your own behalf- so she signed this contract, see, and had you sign it too. And Malfoy signed it, and Malfoy's mum."

"And what did the contract say, Harry?"

The words stuck in his throat and wouldn't move. He couldn't say it.

He couldn't.

Ron leaned over and pulled her hand closer, patting it gently. "You have to marry Malfoy within thirty days. Well, seventeen now, you've been out for a while. You have to bear him an heir within five years. You are required to live in the same house as Malfoy at all times. In return you get half of the Malfoy estate in its entirety- all their holdings, their money, everything except the house itself. You also hold the controlling decision in all things dealing with the Malfoy estate for the duration of the... the, er. marriage."

Her expression was blank. Harry had expected many things. Rage. Helplessness. Threats. He had not expected this complete lack of any reaction at all.

"It's over in five years," Ron said gently. He squeezed her fingers. "The contract specifically states that once Malfoy has his heir and five years have elapsed, you can get rid of him and have your own life. You won't have to stay married to him forever. So, uh... maybe it isn't that bad, you know."

She giggled.

_Giggled._

"And why would I do a thing like that? So there's a contract. How is it enforceable? What are they going to do, sue me for breach of legal contract if I don't marry the little sod?" She laughed then, coughing and laughing at the same time. Ron handed her the glass of water and she sipped at it. "I mean, really! Nice try on their part, right boys?"

Ron licked his lips. "It'll kill you if you don't."

The giggling stopped instantly. "What?"

"It's in the contract. Your 'life is forfeit by all magical law' if you don't keep to it. Harry and I have talked it out, and done some reading, and- well, we're not sure, but it seems to mean that your heart will just stop if you aren't married to Malfoy and he doesn't have his heir when the five years are up."

"That's absurd," her voice said, but the eyes were shocked and a little frightened. Trapped. And she knew it.

The bedcovers flew back and she swung her legs to the floor. "Where d'you think you're off to?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd take a fly 'round the Quidditch pitch. I'm going to the library, idiot. This can't be right."

Ron stood in front of her, keeping her in the bed, and shot Harry an alarmed look. Perhaps they should have let Dumbledore do this after all.

"Hermione, do you remember the Tri-Wizard Tournament our fourth year," Harry asked.

"Do you take me for Crabbe?" she snapped. "Of course I remember."

"Well, it's the same deal. I didn't put my name in the goblet. I had to compete anyway, whether I liked it or not."

"Shut _up_, Harry. That has nothing to do with this."

"It has everything to do with this. Dumbledore says it's a magical contract. It can't be broken. You're stuck."

"Dumbledore doesn't know everything," she rasped back. "Get out of my way, Ron."

Ron almost seemed to acquiesce, then pushed her back down onto the bed. "I've got a better idea. You sit here and rest up, and Harry and I will go to the library for you. We'll bring back all the books we can find. We'll empty the library if we have to. Now, where should we look?"

Ron had gone mad, in Harry's opinion. There was no way out of this, and it was plain silly to let her think so. Dumbledore himself couldn't get her out of it. Why on earth he was standing there, listening to Hermione rattling off lists of the books she needed, he couldn't fathom. Hermione herself had been through that library back in their fourth year looking for the same thing. It was pointless, and he told Ron so the minute the left the hospital wing.

"I know," Ron said with a shrug. "And so does Hermione. You don't get it, Harry; she needs this. She knows that she has no choice, but if she didn't fight by at least exhausting her options first, she would think she was rolling over."

"That makes no sense."

"Sure it does. She's already lost, but she won't admit it until she has to. It helps her- no, it makes her..." Ron thought a moment, looking for the words. "It puts her back in control of her life."

Harry couldn't grasp why a futile search for a way out should make someone feel in control, but chose not to press the issue. Ron had been aching to do something for Hermione for the last two weeks and if going to the library made Ron feel useful, then Harry was in for the haul. Least ways, it was an alternative to wrecking the common room.


	8. No Dearth of Private Thoughts

Disclaimer: the usual. Me / JKR, I am a mere nobody fanfic writer.

This would have been up days ago but was acting up.

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**Chapter 8: No Dearth Of Private Thoughts**

_I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound._ William Shakespeare

The surprising thing was that people were actually in the library. One would think that two weeks after the near-destruction of Hogwarts, studying would not be high on the list of things to do. Harry spotted sleek red hair, a welcome familiarity, and veered away with a word to Ron. Ron waved him off and was promptly lost in the Legal section.

"Hey, Ginny."

Bright brown eyes met his; eyes in a face too pale and underscored by dark shadows. "Hey."

"Mind if I ask why you're reading?" He sat down next to her.

"Because it's a damned good book." She turned the page to illustrate the point.

"_Religious Practices Among Muggles: Eighteenth Century to Present Times," _Harry read from the spine. "I call dibs on borrowing it when you're done."

"No good, because I plan to re-read it endlessly. Humour like this is hard to come by."

They were silent a moment and she turned another page. That did it; she was faking. Harry took the book away.

"Ginny, you don't look all right."

"I think the phrase I'm looking for is 'bugger off'. Feel free to do so at any time."

"Sure, just as soon as you tell me why you're in the library reading the dullest book ever, and looking as if you hadn't slept in weeks."

"Probably because I haven't." No further information was offered, and Harry wasn't certain if he should push the matter. Feeling uncomfortable, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He was fairly sure this had something to do with Snape having died for her- maybe some sense of guilt, or perhaps she was having trouble coming to grips with how close she had come to dying. Either way he was at a loss and offered the first thing that came to mind.

"You know, we'd have the pitch all to ourselves if we wanted to take a spin later. What do you say? Practise a bit, let off some steam; I'll get rusty if I don't get on a broom eventually, and you might even offer a challenge."

"Not right now, Harry." Ginny not rising to the bait? Oh yeah, something was bothering her, all right. "But thanks anyway. Just let me have my book back."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't have to think when you're reading," she explained rather lamely.

"Sure. But find a better book, okay? Ron's got some good Quidditch magazines up in our room."

Ron popped up at their table. "You need my magazines? Just don't crease them, okay? That last issue of _Quidditch Weekly_ had an entire section on the Cannons."

"Back so soon?" Harry noted that Ron had no books with him.

"Bugger if I can find any of them. I know I'm looking in the right place, but they're not there."

"Madam Pince has been dusting," Ginny mentioned casually, opening her book at random. "Check behind the desk."

Madam Pince- lord of her domain, master of all she surveyed- was currently surrounded by stacks of books, as if she were barricading herself and her precious tomes behind parchment walls. She was not pleased at being disturbed and glared at Ron; it would have been more effective if her eyebrows hadn't been singed away, and if it weren't for the thick coating of dust on her eyelashes.

"Seriously, they're not there. Can't you see if you've got them among this lot? I need _Legalities: A Muggle and Wizarding Comparison_; _Tamsin's Counters For Every Need_; _Butter's Guide to Legal Arguments_; _Magical Contracts Throughout History_; _Magical Contracts and Their Uses_; and _The Official Compendium of Legal Contracts._"

She waved a hand at him, annoyed, as if he was a bug in need of shooing. "They're in use already."

"In use! By who?"

Lips pursed, eyes glinted. This was not a happy woman. She flipped through a notebook and read an entry. "Draco Malfoy checked out all the books you requested, about ten days ago."

Hermione was not to be stopped, and no small detail such as the unavailability of the books would get in her way. She remained in bed, resting, content to bark orders at Ron and Harry to get those books at any cost. They took to lurking in the dungeons near the Slytherin common room. That did not go over well with the Slytherin parents. Suspicions still ran high, especially against the Slytherins. Neither was Malfoy to be found in the Great Hall at mealtimes. That was only to be expected; his father had killed students and been killed by a student. His mother was a convicted felon awaiting execution within days. The atmosphere at Hogwarts wasn't precisely that of a lynch mob, but it wasn't far from it.

Draco Malfoy was blithely unconcerned with public sentiment at the moment. This was terribly out of character for him; much of his short life had thus far been devoted to getting as much attention as possible, and what the public thought of him (and how often) had rarely been far from his mind. At the moment he was oblivious to everything except his writing desk, at which he spent all of his time. This was also out of character. Draco had scraped some very good grades in his day, but study was not his favourite occupation. He preferred a more slapdash method, namely to read the text once and brag that studying was for the unwashed masses. Studying was suddenly of vital importance, though. His mother's life and his own literally hinged upon his facility with books, pen and parchment.

So it was that the residents of Slytherin house became accustomed, in a surreal sort of way, to the sight of Draco Malfoy bent earnestly over one dusty tome or another. He paused frequently to scribble notes, otherwise they might have begun to check him for moss on his damp underside. Every night he would bend low over his desk and painstakingly write one long letter after another; offering financial compensation, bribes and blandishments, calling in favours, cajoling, demanding and outright begging. Malfoy pride be damned; he knew what they had in store for his Mum. Nott still got the _Daily Prophet_ and he had filched it a week ago after everyone went to bed.

Dragons. The sick buggers at the Ministry had gloated to the newspaper that they had imported three Hungarian Horntails for the purpose of the executions. Making a damned festive occasion of it, they were. Advertising the brutal end awaiting Death Eaters and those convicted of collaborating against the Ministry.

They were going to feed his Mum to a dragon.

He shuddered and concentrated once more on his letter to the Italian chancellor. Italy had outlawed public execution by dragon back in 1732. Surely they could be made to see reason.

The torches were guttering, candles merely small points of light amid puddles of sickly green wax, when Draco set the last letter aside. He had bribed a third year to post his mail by owl, having no idea where his owl was and more sense than to leave the common room. He scrubbed his grainy eyes with ink-stained fingers and momentarily thought of his bed- his warm, lovely bed, with the soft down pillows and clean-smelling sheets. He could draw the hangings, create his own little private world that smelled of lavender and potion herbs, and just-

Absolutely not. Far too much to do yet. He spotted a plate of sandwiches left for him by Nott earlier in the day, now crusty and cuddling up to a flagon of lukewarm pumpkin juice. Next to the plate was a stack of library books, crucial to procuring his release from his own prison. His stomach growled with astonishing volume and his hand twitched guiltily towards the sandwiches. With a sigh, he reached past the plate and selected a book. There was a passage in here about how a contract could not legally bid its subjects engage in any despicable act. He couldn't think of anything more despicable right offhand than copulating with the Mudblood to get his bloody heir. The Wizengamot might not go for that, though, let alone some ethereal whatever controlling the contract's enforcement, but perhaps if there was one loophole, then there would be another.

Sure. Of course.


	9. The Puppetmaster

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Puppetmaster**

_You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you. - _Eric Hoffer

Two days since Hermione had ordered them to the library on her behalf, and Harry really couldn't say why he had only now fully appreciated how fearsome she was. Visiting the hospital wing without the required books was downright frightening. Ron and himself had left at a near run, her furious screeching following them out the corridor. Whomever had sent Hermione an owl was a sick bastard; the boys were getting Howlers by the hour.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Ron and Harry huddled determinedly under the Invisibility cloak near the Slytherin common room, waiting for the opportunity they needed. Harry swore he could _see_ the mould on the walls growing. Even Slytherins had to eat breakfast sometime, so they waited. At last movement was heard, but he groaned on seeing that they had misjudged the precise location of the common room entrance. No way they could slip in before the door closed. Ron was quicker of thought and his hand lashed out to grab the robes of the weedy young man passing them. He yanked him close before he could give so much as a squeak.

"Do you _really_ want to know where my wand is pointed, Nott?"

The young man recovered with remarkable swiftness, startled features smoothing into what must be normalcy. "I can't say as I recognise the voice, but you must be in Gryffindor. Did you require something?"

"Yeah, actually. Malfoy's head, preferably on one of those spiffy silver platters you lot are so fond of. When is he coming out?"

Nott's eyes went unreadable at the mention of Malfoy, invisible shutters walling off the windows to his soul. The voice remained obnoxiously serene and almost cheerful. "Don't imagine he will be, though I'll relay your kind regards if you'll give me your name."

Ron's face, which Harry could see, went a shade of red which signalled imminent eruption of a violent sort, and Harry stepped in with a steadying hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Being uncooperative isn't an option, Nott. You see, this is rather urgent."

The eyes shifted to look at his left ear and Harry could almost hear the wheels turning. "We aren't going to kill him. Mind, we'd certainly _like_ to kill him, but we won't. We just need to... to chat with him for a bit."

"Ah." Nott nodded curtly. "Harry Potter. And the wand pointed at my bits must belong to Ronald Weasley."

Nott inclined his head graciously, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "My pleasure, I don't believe we've met properly before. I would like to officially convey my regards to Miss Granger, as well as my regrets to her upcoming situation. You can make indignant noises, Mr. Weasley, but I assure you that Slytherin sentiment is currently most sympathetic towards both Miss Granger and Malfoy, especially from a few of the parents here. You judge us unfairly, however understandable it might be."

"I'm sure you're all the very salt of the earth," Harry said dryly. "Now, about Malfoy?"

"My sincerest apologies, but I'll have to decline. Malfoy has his own problems at the moment."

"Can I curse him now, Harry?" Ron's voice was indecently eager and Nott paled significantly.

"I repeat," Harry said slowly, "being uncooperative is not an option. We need Malfoy and you will produce him. Otherwise perhaps I'll ask Dumbledore to give me the common room password so I can fetch him myself. It would be a pity if I happened to tell everyone in the Great Hall what that password was."

Nott looked amused beneath his clammy pallor. "Clumsy, Potter. A good effort and I'm sure Dumbledore will deny his hero nothing, but a sloppy delivery. These things must be done with style." His face screwed up in the direction of the ceiling, wearing a thoughtful expression. "What exactly do you need from Malfoy? Vengeance?"

"Well," Harry waffled, a bit embarrassed. "We need some books he checked out from the library."

Ron hastily added, "And to have a word with him. Hermione means the world to us, and if he thinks we're just going to stand-"

"Yes, yes," Nott interrupted. "You need to ascertain his intentions towards your dearest friend, I get that. The books... I can see why she would want them. Reputation as a library hound, what? Well deserved too."

Nott gazes seriously in the direction of their faces, not quite getting the right spot but an effective look nonetheless. "Gentlemen, I meant what I said when I informed you that Malfoy has his own problems. Granted, I doubt you or anyone else outside of Slytherin cares for Mrs. Malfoy. However, I must appeal to your finer sentiments. She is still his mother. He loves her very much, and she is slated to die an agonising public death in six days."

Nott allowed that to sink in before continuing. "Malfoy is right now sitting at his desk, writing a letter to Peru to appeal for asylum on her behalf last I checked. He has barely moved from that spot for eight days and I do believe he has beseeched literally everyone he or his parents have ever known, for aid. Can you disregard his father's loyalties, his mother's acts and his reprehensible crime of being a Slytherin long enough to summon even the slightest regard for what he might be feeling at the moment?"

Harry couldn't think of anything appropriate to say to this, which Nott took as encouraging. "I think I see a way which we can all win in this matter, though. Miss Granger wants books, you want to be reassured that Malfoy won't be particularly horrid to Miss Granger, and I have wants of my own. Besides keeping my bits intact, that is."

Ron glared at the weedy young man suspiciously. "You think you can make demands of us right now?"

"Yes, actually, I do." Nott's face lit in a benevolent smile. "Of course you can hex me, and I am sure it would be quite painful. I can then go to the hospital wing, where Slytherins find an inordinately long wait to have their injuries tended, but eventually Madam Pomfrey will set me right. And you, my fine chaps, will continue to wait out here for a student who may never emerge. What will you do then, hex the bits off a second year?"

"Perhaps," Harry growled.

"Oh, I don't believe so. Bit dark for you, Potter. So, we can view our mutual wants as a problem or an opportunity. Shall I draw apart whilst the pair of you decide?"

Harry glanced at Ron, who scowled darkly but nodded. "Right. What do you need, Nott?"

"Splendid! Absolutely capital! Incidentally, I think that phrase is vastly underestimated. Listen to the way it just rolls off the tongue- absolutely capital! Now, what I want is for the pair of you to arrange a session with Miss Granger by which select Slytherins and parents of Slytherins can give her their congratulations on her prowess in duelling, their thanks for defending the school and by extension themselves or their own children, and , of course, certain people wish to give some delicately encouraging remarks in regards to her upcoming marriage. There's also the matter of updating address books. I tell you, Mrs. Greengrass has been climbing walls not knowing how Miss Granger will affect her social plans this summer. Do let's set the lady's mind at rest, her hand wringing is most distracting and I'm trying to revise for NEWTS."

Harry felt sublimely stupid. "Address book?"

"Yes, quite," Nott nodded happily, then started. "Oh, yes, one forgets how you lived before you came to school. Careless of me, ever so sorry. Strange, isn't it, how one assumes everyone knows the mundane and taken for granted details of one's own life? Social calendars are a convoluted thing and Mrs. Draco Malfoy _nee _Granger will assume an importance of the highest quality. One simply cannot invite the Parkinsons to a fete which she does not plan to attend herself, and if she were to decline said fete then one would be required to respond with an intimate garden party."

Harry and Ron looked at each other blankly. "Run that by us again?"

Patiently Nott explained, "If Miss Granger declines an important invitation as a Malfoy, the best families would be insulting themselves to attend in her absence. Thus, an intimate garden party, which allows people to assume that Mrs. Malfoy simply was not up to festivities." Nott sighed with a resigned air. "It's all very droll and silly but it's a custom. It's also customary for the lady of the house to handle all correspondence. Therefore, some grand dames - who also happen to be lovely dears - are in such a fuss over it."

Harry leaned against the stone wall and blew his cheeks out in befuddlement. How had control of the situation been lost so utterly, and how on earth had the conversation been steered to this? Ron was staring at the rabbity Nott with an expression reminiscent of watching a flobberworm tapdance. Harry's head spun and he could think of nothing but to nod. "All right. I guess, as long as no one upsets Hermione, it should be fine," he said slowly.

"Perfect!" Nott clapped in delight. "Shall we meet immediately after supper? I'll give you whichever books Malfoy has finished with as he finishes them, you can tell me when would be good for Miss Granger to receive visitors, and we can discuss Malfoy's behaviour towards his intended. I would shake your hands but I can't see them."

Harry and Ron mumbled agreement and gaped at each other under the cloak as Nott bounced off down the corridor. What the hell had just happened?

Nott stepped sprightly along, down the corridor and up a flight of stairs, whistling an Irish drinking tune which echoed off stone walls. He took a right, then another right, up a flight of stairs and then a left, finally ducking into a toilet. Only when he was certain he had not been followed did he allow himself to sag to the floor, hands shaking. Dear gods, that had been terrifying. Ronald Weasley, who had taken the field against legendary cohorts of the Dark Lord with hardly a _scratch_ to show for it, had held him at point-blank range. And Potter! He took deep gulps of air and hung his head between his knees, grateful for the cool air of the toilet. He had almost dared them to hex him. What the ruddy hell had he been thinking!

_When you are confronted, run. When you are cornered, fight. When you cannot fight, threaten. When you cannot threaten, make like an idiot with useful information and keep your opponent off balance. _Words etched on his very soul by a grandfather long gone. It was highly doubtful that he meant to babble like a fool but at least it had worked. As far as Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were concerned, he was a bubbly idiot overly concerned with society.

He closed his eyes and leaned back now that the initial nausea had passed. He took a few deep breaths and willed his heartbeat to slow. This could be used to his - Slytherin's - advantage. Yes. _Think, my boy. What is the next move._ Draco would have to be dealt with, naturally. Whether he owed him or not - and he did - he still had to consider himself first and Slytherin second. His eyes opened as inspiration struck. Of course. Miss Granger was the next move, and for all the same reasons which had led Mrs. Malfoy to align her son with a Mudblood and he himself to request an audience for Slytherins with her. Harry Potter was the hero of the wizarding world, and Miss Granger was among his closest friends. His most _influential_ friends.

The future of Slytherin would be won through the approving nod of that bushy head. Yes.


	10. The Inner Workings

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**Chapter 10: The Inner Workings**

_He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight. He will win who knows how to handle both superior and inferior forces. He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared. Hence the saying: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself you will succumb in every battle. _Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

Nott was a very busy young man for the remainder of the morning, reluctantly setting aside his Transfiguration textbook in favour of the rich opportunity at hand. He paced his dorm room and nibbled on candied orange peel, which, in his opinion, was even better than powdered dragon talon for helping one think. The issue at hand was a complicated one and he approached it as one might a delicate Arithmancy equation, and with equal enjoyment. First off, establish the facts. Granger has shared several classes with him over the course of their school careers and he knew a good deal about her, even if they had never spoken. She was stubborn and opinionated, loyal, not overly concerned with appearances. She also craved acknowledgement; Draco and Pansy had always ascribed her frantic arm-waving in class as symptoms of Mudblood low self-esteem and general show-off-ishness, but Nott was of the opinion that she simply liked the possession of knowledge- and liked even better when everyone acknowledged her cleverness.

The immediate hurdle was clear: Nott had to be the first to get an audience with her. As he reviewed what he knew of Potter's female friend the inkling of an idea dawned on him. Chewing fiercely on his sweet, he fleshed it out, examining his angle and potential opposition. The initial contact would undoubtedly be the trickiest. Once he was satisfied with his plan, he put his stash of sweets away and grinned.

"Nott, my boy, you are brilliant," he told himself.

He needed to know precisely when Potter and Weasley had spoken with Miss Granger in regards to their little arrangement. That was accomplished by the simple expedient of bribing a first year to follow them- thirty Chocolate Frog cards and one promised eighteen inch essay on the properties of moonstone in potion making later, Nott had his spy. A suitable reason to visit was provided by Mrs. Greengrass on agreement that she would be first in line to visit with the future Mrs. Malfoy.

The hospital wing was quiet and stank of convalescence, of spilt potion and old wounds healing. He wrinkled his nose in a barely discernable gesture, as he had always done on his daily visits. Madam Pomfrey glared at him suspiciously, as she had always done lately. He sent her a cheerful smile and waited patiently for the customary patting-down. Satisfied that he was unarmed, she poked his bundle.

"What is that?"

"Swiss chocolates and Transfiguration homework for Portia, and this is a present for Miss Granger from Draco Malfoy, Madam."

Her cheeks pinked and he could see that she very much wanted to tell him to shove off. He pretended to wave back to someone at the other end of the room and said by way of escape, "There's Portia now, if you'll excuse me?"

He slipped away before she could argue, hurried to his housemate's bedside and pulled the privacy curtain. A sweet-faced second year looked up at him - or rather, his chocolate - with welcoming eyes. He sat next to her as she dove headfirst into the gold-wrapped package, letting her girlish chatter wash over him.

To the background noise of what 'horrid old Pomfrey' did today and how long it had been since the Ravenclaw in the bed across the room had washed his hair, he sorted and categorised and mentally assembled his wits to war. Convincing Gryffindors that the sky was blue was difficult enough unless they could run on out to see for themselves; convincing a Gryffindor that he was harmless would be much more so.

"-and then Dumbledore announced that he was taking over the Ministry with nothing but a pack of wild flamingos and three enchanted handkerchiefs."

"Pardon me?"

Portia's little face was accusing. "You haven't been listening to a word I was saying. You're up to something, aren't you."

"Would I be up to something?"

"Only if it suited you and it was important." She considered this and amended, as an afterthought. "Or if you were bored with keeping your head down."

"Cheeky. You know me too well, by God."

She leaned forward with the female's anticipatory hunger for good gossip. "Well? What are you up to?"

His gaze flicked involuntarily to Granger's bedside and her eyes followed. Precocious little chit. "Never you mind. How is the leg coming along?"

She pushed the hospital-issue blankets aside and flexed her leg. It was no longer the twisted and mangled caricature of a limb of two weeks ago but he inwardly flinched regardless. "I will never again have to suffer those ballroom dance lessons," she said with some satisfaction. She switched to a clinically detached voice and recited, "There will always be some deformation and scar tissue, though the scarring should improve with time. I'll have very close to a full range of movement and strength, especially if I take care to treat it as a normal leg. With luck, no one will be able to tell the difference when I'm dressed."

Nott examined the leg with her, his mouth smiling and telling her how good it looked, how fast it was healing. The raw red knob of her new kneecap stared at him, starbursting scars spreading from it like tentacles, grabbing him and pulling him back. He breathed in and smelled the fear, the dust of the stone passageways, the fine wool and sweat of dozens upon dozens of students jostling in a mass as the castle was rocked by another explosion, the students rolling like waves from one wall to another in an effort to keep their feet.

The memory of Professor Snape roared. _Mr. Nott, Miss Bulstrode, get these children back to the common room and barricade yourselves in. Prefects and upper forms, wands out! _

A parting of ways, one group reeking of salty fear and going forth to meet death. _Except for you, Mr. Malfoy. Accompany Nott and keep your head down._

Third years in the vanguard in a Piper's army led by a shining boy, fists stuffed in pockets and whistling the latest Gryffindor mock-tune for a crying first year. They walked away from danger. Trouble was, danger was walking toward them.

_Avad-_

_Serpensortia! Stupefy!_ _Stupefy!_ _Stupefy! _

Hell exploded in the passageway and three teenagers faced it down with children at their backs. A wall crumbled, Malfoy was surrounded and yelling for them to run, run, run and the screams, the screams, _the children were screaming..._

He inhaled sharply, pulling golden motes flying on the afternoon sunshine deep into his lungs, bringing with them the scent of the hated hospital wing and dragging him back to the present. Nott smiled benignly at the curious face of the little girl before him, seeing in it the face of the man who had twitched and spasmed on the rough-hewn floor with a snake twined around his leg.

"I imagine you'll be getting out soon, seeing as how much you've improved."

"Orla Quirke's mother says my father isn't coming back," she said, with poorly faked nonchalance.

"Orla Quirke's mother is a spiteful meddling hag and I hope her tongue rots out," he retorted, seething with indignation. She looked up at him with those big, big brown eyes, so solemn and so young and now so completely aware that Orla Quirke's mother had been right. Father was not coming back.

Nott looked away from the horribly lost eyes of his housemate and tucked the blanket back around her legs to give her time to compose herself. As he covered the ruined knee, the deep wellspring of anger barely hidden beneath the surface began to well up, boiling, twisting his insides. Damn all holier-than-thou adults taking such delight in crushing a little girl for her sin of being Portia Avery. Damn Avery for being so incompetent as to die and leave his baby girl alone in the world. Damn him doubly - especially - for being in that corridor, for opening fire on _children. _Damn Portia for grieving over a father in a mask, dying with foam on his lips as his child shrieked and bled and would one day know, and in the knowing would hate him and hate herself for being his.

Fucking war.

"Theo?" came her voice then, tight and shrill. "I wouldn't want to keep you and I should get to this homework."

Translation: don't make me cry in front of you.

He patted her knee - the good one. "I'll be back tomorrow, and if you need any help with that essay, just ask."

He pulled the privacy curtain behind him. Fucking war indeed.

Nott stalked to Granger's bed, thoroughly not in the mood for this. The notion of making more excursions to the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's benevolent eye was unsavoury though, and it wasn't as if he had much hope of winning the Gryffindor twit over anyway. Might as well get it over with.

He plopped down in a chair unceremoniously. "I'd like to help."

She stared blankly. "With the contract?" Naturally she asked none of the questions she should have. The woman had no instincts at all.

"No, but I have convinced Draco to give up some of those books he is hoarding. He's making notes right now, Potter will bring them by tonight. I want to help you with being a Malfoy. I'm sure you think a Malfoy does nothing other than be as unpleasant as possible to people he or she doesn't like, and wallow in their wealth. Keep on thinking that and you'll only prove to people that Muggleborns are know-nothing and unsophisticated beyond redemption."

Her eyes narrowed in distaste. "And what, exactly, is it like to be a Malfoy?"

Much better. Ask questions, be suspicious, make me prove myself. "For example, there is the traditional seat on the board of St. Mungo's. The board makes decisions as to who is accepted into the apprentice Healer program and what monies are spent on potions research. That seat goes by custom to the eldest Mrs. Malfoy, just as the governorship of Hogwarts goes to the elder Mr. Malfoy." He paused for a moment to ensure he still had her attention, if not her interest. "Four hundred hectares of vineyards in France, which provides almost the sole potential employment for the nearby village; a magical animal preserve on the Malfoy private island, sleeping partnership of two broomstick companies; and controlling shareholder of the _Daily Prophet. _Those are just the enterprises which are common knowledge and undoubtedly there are others. You, of course, have final decision-making control over the Malfoy estate, so all of this is now your problem."

She looked intimidated. Good. "Then there is the matter of society. As a Malfoy, you will be a cornerstone of European wizard society and these people will have expectations of you."

She huffed a scornful noise and plucked at the front of her robe. "Can you imagine _me_ as a member of society? Really."

"No, I can't. That's why I am here." He leaned forward intently. "You scoff at what you take for the frivolities of the rich, but you cannot imagine the power wielded by these people. Society is more than a round of mere _parties_; it is the meeting of the most influential wizards and witches on the continent, people with connections, people with more sway over what the wizarding world thinks than even the Ministry. And you will be the very first Mudblood to be present as anything other than a _servant_."

"Don't you dare call me that."

He shrugged. "It's what most of them will be thinking. As a Malfoy, you will be important. As a Mudblood, you will be significant; not the token, but the _representative _of people like you. The pinnacle of the wizarding world will be reaffirming or reforming their opinion of Muggleborns- based entirely on you."

She chewed on her lip, hands fidgeting at her side. Weakness. God, did she ever need help. "Why would you want to help?"

"Someone has to. It isn't as if your friends can provide assistance."

She did not acknowledge this but continued to worry at her upper lip. He sat calmly, letting her think it through. Then, "What do you suggest?"

Asking him to reveal his plan without promising anything. Perhaps the woman had instincts after all. "You agreed to meet with certain people from Slytherin house?" She nodded. "Be polite and pleasant, especially to Mrs. Greengrass. Give that one anything she requests. Have someone fix your hair and wear this."

He handed over the cloth-wrapped bundle. She lightly ran rough fingers over the satiny material and unwrapped it, removing a pristine white dressing gown in a luxuriously sturdy damask silk. It was unadorned but for the sash, beautifully embroidered in black.

"That is a personal gift from Mrs. Greengrass," he informed her. "Thank her and don't say anything stupid. You are a Malfoy; you expect things like this."

"I am not a Malfoy," she said with disgust.

"You will be. I'll handle the rest. Are we in agreement then?"

She contemplated the silk of the dressing gown and then looked up at him, her eyes very direct. "I have no intentions of ever marrying that loathsome git. Mark my words, I _will_ find a way out of this. However, I agreed to meet with the Slytherins and I will not allow people to continue with their ignorant opinions on Muggleborns if I can change their minds. So yes, we have an agreement. Just don't expect it to last any longer than the time I need to invalidate that contract."

Glory be, she was using her brains at last. He stood and bowed mockingly. "As you wish. I shall see you tomorrow."


	11. Subtlety in Motion

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Subtlety in Motion**

Perception is the filter by which we view reality. In theory this works quite well, but then so does communism. All men are idealists and view the world through rose-tinted glasses, the left hand lens being called Experience and the right Bias, both such being so wound up in who we are that the whole is called Ego. Ordinary pink spectacles they are to others but to our own selves perception is a validation and summation of our existence. Thus will a man choose perception over reality if the latter disagrees with the former. To an intellect, this is irony - to a Slytherin, this is opportunity.

Theodore Nott's family was neither pureblood nor well-heeled and, truth be told, not even all that accomplished. Rumor has it that an aunt and second cousin were, respectively, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, though you didn't hear that bandied about carelessly. The reality of it is that a close examination of pureblood society would show to anyone with sense that the Notts simply did not belong. However, sense should never get in the way of a good dinner party.

Of all the qualities that the Notts did not possess, the one they did - and the only one that really matters - was a fine ability to lie. Nothing quite so vulgar as the outright falsehoods suggested, but the Notts were adept at saying a simple thing and then stepping back to allow a man's perceptions to do the lying for them. As the old saying goes, tell an untruth to one man and you're a liar, but tell it to many and you're a politician.

Back in the common room, Nott ran the gauntlet of watching eyes as he made his way to Draco's writing desk. The taller boy didn't even look up.

"You gave the chocolates to Portia?"

"Of course."

Draco picked up two books. "These books can go to that nasty, common, filthy little -" Strangled noises issued from his throat and he shoved the books into Theodore's arms. "Give them to _her_."

"The Mudblood?" Theodore's voice was innocent and Draco's return gaze was murderous. "Oh, and I had a little run-in. Seems your intended has champions who are busily fretting you might not treat her with loving kindness and such."

"They're right."

"I assumed so."

Nott turned to go but Draco froze him to the floor with a look. "What's on your mind, Nott?"

"What makes you ask?"

"You must think I'm stupid. Sit down and tell me what you're thinking."

He obediently sat and pushed the useless books to one side. All this letter writing and reading wouldn't do any good, not that he had any intentions of pointing this out to Draco. That was ever Draco's biggest fault; he didn't think far enough into the future.

"Weasley's not pleased with this whole thing, you realise."

"He can have her with my blessings," Draco grunted.

Nott toyed with Malfoy's quill. "Weasel-face has never had the sort of money to buy his little girlfriend a present, I don't believe."

Grey eyes glanced up through an overhanging shock of hair. Nott could see the interest, the spite. His lips twisted in a mocking grin and Draco's cheeks twitched, eyes crinkling.

"Probably nothing, old boy. Just a thought." Nott stood and clapped Malfoy on the shoulder lightly. "I'll leave you to your work."

It was no huge surprise to see a package winging its way to the Owlery between a pair of white owls two days later. Shortly past lunch Draco handed him a gilded box with a note pinned to the ribbons. "There's Impervious Ice Cream Bombs on my bureau for Portia," he said tersely. Draco returned to his book without mentioning the package.

Nott retired to Draco's room, ostensibly to fetch Portia's daily offering. It was the work of a moment to slip open the box but he replaced the lid with a certain disappointment. He had been expecting jewelry. Carefully he pried loose the note's sealing wax, to be replaced exactly so later, and read with great amusement. Nott wondered idly how much parchment Draco had wasted before he got the insults out of his system.

_Miss Granger,_

_This being none of my doing, I was pressed for time in the matter of your gift. I trust it meets your satisfaction. You will also find enclosed a book on multinational contract law, borrowed from the Messrs. Franklin of America. They're Yanks but highly regarded for all that as the preeminent men on the subject. Kindly do not dirty the book; it is part of a peerless collection._

_D. Malfoy_

Nott spent a few moments contemplating with delicious mirth the picture of Draco wrestling with the choice of "Regards, D. Malfoy" or "Sincerely, D. Malfoy" or even "Yours, D. Malfoy" - oh, that one was too much! - before leaving off altogether with the bald signature. How utterly priceless. But there was business afoot so he collected Portia's sweets, made sure the package looked untampered and hied himself to the hospital wing. He found Mrs. Greengrass there with Granger, and Portia's bed pulled far too close for Madam Pomfrey's comfort. Granger sat looking from the Slytherin on one side to the Slytherin on the other, clearly pondering how matters had come to this and when she could escape to the library for solace. Nott greeted all three ladies courteously, doled out his parcels and inquired after their health. Portia looked with great interest at the package for Granger, sucking intently on an ice cream ball. Granger looked as if she thought her package might bite her - which was not entirely outside the realm of possibility, actually.

Mrs. Greengrass set aside swatches of fabric. "I was wondering what could be keeping him. Do open it, I'm curious."

Gingerly she undid the ribbons and pulled off the lid. By the set of her jaw, Nott deduced that she was not pleased. "It's a toiletry set."

She passed the heavy silver mirror, comb and hairbrush - monogrammed handily with _H. M._ - around so everyone could admire them.

"Lovely," judged Mrs. Greengrass with an askance look at Granger's bushy hair. "I was expecting jewelry. Now, Miss Granger, back to colour. I can get the cream voile with a green trim, which would be a nice touch, or this crepe silk in either eggshell blue or dove grey."

Granger smothered a groan. "Are we planning a wedding?" Nott asked.

"The social event of the year," Mrs. Greengrass corrected. "Or it would be if I were allowed. Circumstances being what they are, a large wedding would be vulgar, so we're aiming for sumptuous yet subdued."

"In that case, why don't we go with the grey," Granger said with an air of desperation to have done with it.

Regretfully, Mrs. Greengrass set aside a bewitching bit of brocade and then brightened. "Perfect! Subdued, yet we can still work in silver and green for a colour theme. I can just see it: you in dove grey silk with silver threads in your hair and bouquet and greenery simply everywhere. A tasteful acknowledgement of our national mourning yet still a delight to the eyes of the guests."

Granger didn't smother this groan. "Mrs. Greengrass, is this really necessary? I have so much reading to do, and -"

Mrs. Greengrass stilled her with a look and patted her hand gently. "You'll be thankful of it one day, dear. Frivolities they seem and are, but when the day comes you might find that the only thing you have to look forward to is that at least you enjoy your dress." After an awkward moment she stepped right along. "Now, do you fancy orchids or lilies?"

* * *

The forms of communications are legion, be they telephone, television, tell the school gossip, post owl, Post-it note or the paralinguistic presentation of one's posterior, preferably naked. Malfoys have a long-standing tradition of saying things with presents, not to be confused with the aforementioned presentation (how crude). It certainly isn't a trait that particular clan invented - after all, how many wives received cleaning appliances as their Merry Christmas and took it as a gesture of enduring passion - but one they have unwittingly refined throughout their normally selfish existence. There are few other ways to so neatly convey insult, apology, indulgence and a father's hopes for his son's future dastardly career than to buy said son a shrivelled human hand immediately after castigating the boy for noticing it.

Lucius always was a drama queen that way.

The knack, a gift in and of itself, was passed on from parent to child in a thousand little ways, with a thousand little gifts given to, and in front of, him. Dusky cherries flown in 'specially for his mother the day she decided red was a colour to be banished forever from the Manor (_You're a terrible tease, Lucius, do stop laughing or I'll spit every pit right at you._); a luxurious and costly perfume just before the holidays (_Your old uncle is coming to dinner and you're going to sit him next to me again, aren't you_); a rope of pearls and emeralds, one pearl for every day of their marriage and one emerald for every anniversary (_Oh, Lucius..._). Every year on Draco's birthday he savaged a veritable mountain of wrapped trinkets, but the first present was always for Mother.

_You gave a gift to me on this day, love, so here is my gift to you. Oh, and some for the boy as well._

The merry sound of her laughter. _You charming devil. Yes, Draco, you may open yours now, Father's only playing._

Draco was a bright child and he learned both early and well. At the tender age of eight he bought with his very own pocket money a birthday present for one of his little playmates. A tiny silver locket, engraved with a tiny 'P'. Her parents and the other adults had looked on with amused, indulgent little smiles. Of course it was unbecoming for a gentleman to give jewelry to a lady other than his wife or mother, but wasn't it adorable? And one day, perhaps...

Lucius had the very next week pressed upon the Parkinsons a trip to southern France, insistent that Narcissa felt poorly and the already booked and paid-for holiday would go to waste if someone did not stand in for them. That the chateau was less than three miles from the most prestigious young ladies' finishing school in all of Europe was lost on no one.

Draco sat now in the Slytherin common room, moodily toying with a tiny silver memento in one hand and watching the Italian chancellor's response become fire and ash in the marble hearth. No one had objected to him going through Pansy's things, because Pansy was with his mother in some dank cell buried underneath the Ministry. While Father was dying, Mother scheming and he himself leaving Bulstrode behind under a crushing rain of stone wall, Pansy was being caught on the edge of the Forbidden Forest in the company of Death Eaters. Neither Pansy nor his mother would have use for pretty gifts in six more days.

Five more days.

Four more days.

Zabini watched as his housemate hurled a fresh stack of responses into the fire and threw an insignificant bit of silver in after it.

"Are you all right, Draco?" he asked, his quiet voice rumbling through the late-night stillness.

"I'm tired," Draco said shortly.

And he was.


	12. Hatching a Phoenix

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

And I didn't give this up, plan to finish it to the end no matter what.

* * *

****

****

**Chapter 12: Hatching a Phoenix**

_Things do not change; we change._ Henry David Thoreau

They swept in through the front doors, windblown and a little breathless, exhilaration writ large in their young faces. He tripped and she giggled, a sound that was good to hear. Laughter was a tradeable commodity these days. Bright brown eyes, sparkling with mirth and her victory, caught his gaze and for a moment he thought how good it might feel to kiss her - just a little bit. Then people swept in behind them and Remus was tugging at his arm while she waved and called something about hitting the showers. Harry was left wondering if she could read his thoughts or if he really did smell like the business end of a nogtail.

"Sorry about that, Harry, but I need a word." Remus sniffed the air, nostrils widening slightly. "Rough game?"

"She plays dirty."

"Ah. You heard Professor Dumbledore's announcement about the memorial next week? Well, the headmaster would like for you to say a few words and sent me to ask you."

Harry's insides squirmed. "Me? Why me?"

"That should be obvious. It's only a few words, Harry. May I send Professor Dumbledore your acceptance?"

"Well, uh... I..."

"It would mean a great deal to the headmaster, Harry. The Ministry, as well."

_The Ministry?_ "I suppose, if it's only a few words..."

"Excellent! Professor McGonagall will be in touch with you in a day or so to coordinate, I imagine. And on a more personal note -" Remus stopped walking and stood in that old stance, feet apart and hands clasped, so familiar to Harry from class. "I would like to congratulate you. It seems unfair, all the loved ones you've lost and only a teacher to stand here and tell you how proud I am of you, Harry. Terribly, terribly proud."

In the quiet moment that followed, Harry saw Remus Lupin, a study in contrasts - open demeanor with eyes in shadow Here stood two men, victorious and alone, and Harry wondered if Lupin knew how to live any more than he himself did.

"Will you go back to Grimmauld Place?"

"I might," Remus said speculatively. "I might. We shall see."

* * *

Harry crumpled a couple of pieces of parchment and touched the tip of his wand to the pile. The letters smoked and a tongue of flame licked up. He watched the fire consume the letters until ashes remained and then he cleaned up the mess.

Ron glanced up from _Quidditch Weekly_. "Fan mail?"

Harry shook his head. "Couple of letters."

Ron nodded, turned the page and settled more comfortably into his chair. "And?"

"And what?"

"And what did they say that made you burn them?"

"You've been talking to Hermione again." Ron's cheeks turned pink and his pose of nonchalance became more studied.

"She says you need to be watched," he mumbled.

"I rather think the danger's past, Ron. Maybe you missed it," Harry remarked dryly.

Mumble mumble. "... big figure in the Wizarding world... might take advantage..."

"It was just a couple of letters, Ron. People asking favors. I burned them."

Ron's eyebrows lowered suspiciously. "What sort of favors?"

Harry ground his teeth silently. Stubborn git. And where did Hermione get off, setting Ron to watch over him? But Ron was practising the hulking menace look in the direction of the scorch marks, so Harry gave in. This time.

"A concerned citizen asked me to put a stop to the public execution of Death Eaters. Said it was a vulgar display and a step in the wrong direction for the Ministry, not to mention cruelty of the highest order to involve dragons."

Ron shrugged and went back to his magazine. "Sounds reasonable."

"And the Parkinsons wrote to request that I beg for clemency for Pansy Parkinson on grounds that she is too young to die, needed in the community at such a time, being publicly executed by dragon is wanton cruelty and because she's innocent."

Ron's eyebrows soared until they hid behind his hair and all that could be seen was bulging incredulous eyes. "No comment."

"None needed. Burned the letters."

"Good man."

"Too right."

* * *

They settled gracefully on the grass and tucked their broomsticks under their arms. It was time for a breather. Harry stuffed the Snitch, buzzing and whirring with nervous energy, into his pocket. He had already caught it twice and didn't care for a third at the moment. Ron and Ginny threw themselves on the pair of Bludgers and bundled them away, too. They stood there for a bit, disheveled and panting, and on an unseen signal flopped on the ground in unison.

The pick-up games of Quidditch - if three or sometimes four people could be said to make a proper Quidditch game - were becoming a regular occasion with them. It had been Harry's idea and he was rather proud of himself for thinking of it. For a little while at least, Ginny's cheeks had colour and her eyes were bright and interested. Arthur Weasley, only just finished with the Ministry's interviews after these three weeks, waved from the stands and his little girl waved back to him.

"That was a decent speech you gave yesterday, Harry," she said.

Ron chuckled. "Especially once you stopped stuttering."

"If I never have to do that again, I'll live out my life a happy man," Harry said fervently.

Ginny picked a blade of grass and nibbled the tender end. "Malfoy looked horrible. Did you see his face?"

Ron grunted something not fit for fine company. Harry nodded his agreement. "How strange it must be," Ginny persisted, "to spend a day knowing that it would have been your execution day if not for fate."

Harry shifted uncomfortably and mentally searched for another conversational gambit. He really didn't give two shakes about Malfoy's problems and the way Ginny's cheek muscles twitched as she speculated gave him the willies. He suspected she was talking from experience and he had worked too hard to let her go that way again.

"At least he's got a future," Ron groused. "Not that he deserves it."

There now, Ron was off on a maudlin mood of his own. They had been having a fabulous time, in fact, it had been an all-around great day for Harry: not once had anyone congratulated him or otherwise pretended he was the best thing to ever happen to the wizarding world. He'd gone the entire day without looking like an idiot in front of Ginny. Now they both wanted to pull long faces and talk about Malfoy. Malfoy! Of all people!

" I'm going to go visit Hermione," Ron said in an offhand manner. "She's almost out of books."

Ron heaved himself off the grass and they watched him walk towards the castle, passing his mother on the way and fending off a kiss from the same. Plump Molly Weasley waved at them vigorously and pointed to a basket tucked on her arm.

"I see Mum plans to feed us again, lest we grow faint on a mere three meals a day," Ginny drawled. Harry coughed to hide his laughter as her mother drew near.

"I thought you might be hungry after your game, so I've brought sandwiches and something to drink."

Harry coughed harder.

"Oh, and a tart! The house elves make a lovely raspberry tart."

Ginny thumped him on the back heartily and Molly paused her rummaging through the basket to put a hand against his forehead, clucking about catching his death if he weren't better to himself and perhaps she would bring up some soup after their showers and was he sure he was getting enough sleep?

"Quite sure, thanks."

"Congratulations on the job, Harry, really a splendid opportunity. Arthur and I are terribly proud. You'll be coming by for a week's rest before you're off though, won't you?"

Ginny shot him a curious look. "What job?"

"Well, I, uh, hadn't officially accepted it yet, Mrs. Weasley. I'm still thinking on it."

"Hold on, what job?"

"Thinking on it! What on Merlin's beard is there to think about? Arthur told me it's a perfect situation, with a lovely starting pay and a bonus package and everything a young man could need fresh out of school."

"I _said_, what job? Harry, who offered you a job?"

"You'll get to travel and continue your studies - and just think of the people you'll meet! Working with some of the most influential wizards of our age, Harry, this job's a plum. You're mad if you haven't written your acceptance letter yet, and that's all I'll say about it."

Molly shut her lips tight as if to emphasise her words and finished spreading out the basket's contents on a neat cloth. Then she put her hands on her hips and wagged her finger in his direction, "But you'd be a fool to pass this up, Harry. There, I said I would say no more and I won't. Here comes Arthur now, enjoy your snack and I'll see you after your showers. Arthur fancies a stroll."

"Congratulations on the job, Harry!" Arthur waved as he linked arms with his wife and Harry smiled back weakly. He picked up a sandwich and Ginny sipped at her butterbeer with a pointedly expectant look.

"British Liaison to the International Confederation of Wizards," he muttered.

"How very posh," she said flatly. Ginny took another sip at her butterbeer. "And you'll be travelling."

"Yeah. They have, uh, a few houses for my use. Bulgaria, Peru, France..." he trailed off, acutely uncomfortable, and finished lamely. "You know. Places like that."

"It's an awful fancy term for Official Ministry Poster Boy ."

Something indignant welled up in him. "Here now, it's not made up. It's a proper job and all. Bernard Frumpwittle held the post until two years back when he retired and it's been filled by an interim guy named Gathewaite through to this winter, but he was killed in the Christmas Death Eater attack in Paris. I know I'll have to be trained but the offer letter addressed that; my pay won't be anywhere close to what they usually pay, not for a few years yet probably. And there's no speeches and almost no dealings with the public." His chin jutted in a silent _'so there_.'

"You'll write to me?"

"Of course I planned to write." He bit savagely at a sandwich. First a Ministry poster child and now a cad? "There'th like forty owlth at my dithpothal and a private thecretary-"

"That's disgusting. Chew and swallow, Harry. Well, Ron leaves for France in August, so you'll have some company at any rate. Aside from the holiday parties, you're probably free to come and go as you please. Not like we won't see you often. I agree, it sounds like a proper job. Congratulations on landing it."

That was more like it. It was a damned fine job and here she was giving him trouble over it, acting as if the job were degrading, or a personal insult to herself. He gloated just a bit as they repacked the basket and only halfway to the castle did it occur to him to wonder when, precisely, he had even decided he wanted the job.


	13. Resistance is Futile

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Resistance is Futile**

_Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death in the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends. _J. R. R. Tolkien

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed in the girl's dormitory, engrossed in a book so old it crackled with each turn of the page. The last of the bruises had faded, though her steps were slow and faltering still, and she had been released three days prior from Madam Pomfrey's care. Ginny sat behind her and exchanged frequent worried glances with Luna.

"Hermione, really, if you don't put your dress on now, you'll be late."

"Just one more page, I'm sure there'll be something..."

"Hermione, please, the ceremony starts in less than an hour and you still have to meet with Dumbledore."

"Shhhh. Reading."

8

One of Draco's hands stirred amongst his blonde hair while the other frantically flipped through reams and reams of notes.

"Draco, you _know_ it takes ten minutes to get to Dumbledore's office from here and you haven't even showered yet!"

"No! There's still time, I mean, look right... right..." He turned over a page and read to himself, lips moving soundlessly.

8

A particularly picturesque area near the lake had been cordoned off for the day's festivities. White chairs imported for the event were lined in neat rows and festooned with shimmering threads of silver gossamer. Ivy vines, sprung up overnight, twined around, over and through anything that would sit still and the air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. Jimmy Peakes and Jack Sloper, a pair of Gryffindor students who had not warranted an invitation, stood under a tree near the banks of the lake and watched as the guests began to arrive.

"Five Galleons says he doesn't show up."

"Ten says neither shows up."

A fat house elf in strange livery puffed by carrying an enormous cake trimmed with sprigs of mint and silvery spun sugar.

"Bet he drops the cake."

8

Mrs. Greengrass possessed an indomitable spirit; that night it was often said that the event would have been disastrous if not for her timely intervention. A pair of unlikely hooligans were hustled away from the seating area and the cake was only just rescued from complete ruin at the hands of a clumsy house elf. Fresh champagne glasses were being Flooed in from her cousin in Germany to replace the ones already smashed, that Weasley fellow was once again reminded that killing the groom would not solve anyone's problems and the fairies brought in to light the grounds were prevented from assaulting the doves in a territorial dispute. Finally everything was perfect. She had only just begun to greet the guests in the last minutes before everyone was seated for the ceremony when she spotted Professor Dumbledore, resplendent in sweeping purple velvet, hurrying across the lawn.

"Madam Greengrass." He nodded in greeting to Mr and Mrs. Flint and pulled her aside. "There seems to be a problem. Our couple did not arrive for their meeting in my office."

"Oh dear," she breathed. "Oh no. I should have anticipated this. Quick, Headmaster, find a few strong men and send them to the Slytherin common room. I'll go get Miss Granger."

She grabbed Potter by the nape of his dress robes and hurried, heels clacking over the stone floor, explaining as she hustled him along to the Gryffindor common room. He mumbled the password as quietly as he could and the portrait, a fat woman in pink silk with ribbon thrown haphazardly over one ear and holding a glass of champagne, giggled, "That's right, death to Slytherin indeed!"

The door opened and a very red-faced Potter pointed out the stairs to the girl's dormitory. Mrs. Greengrass practically flew up them and tried each door until at last she burst into the correct one. There she beheld Miss Granger (still in her _chemise!_), the Weasley girl trying to force the dress over her head while a moon-eyed blonde with a necklace of champagne corks danced just out of Granger's reach with a book.

Mrs. Greengrass groaned. "What on Merlin's beard did I do to deserve this?"

8

Theodore watched Draco struggle with Adrian, Marcus and Marcus' father and sighed loudly. Surely this would all be funny afterwards, preferably with about a quart of champagne in him, but a the moment he had the beginnings of a headache.

"No! Give those back, there's still time!"

"Come now, Draco, be reasonable. Dumbledore says it's time to go."

"Dumbledore can sod off! I've still got a day. Tell them, Nott, I've still got another day!"

"A quick shower and we'll have you ready in five minutes, Draco boy."

"Nott! Nott, help! I've got 'til tomorrow, dammit!"

"Dad, he won't drown much if we Stupefy him, right?"

Yes. He definitely had a headache.

8

Mrs. Greengrass waded into the fray just as the recalcitrant would-be bride recalled that she was a witch and brought a wand into play.

8

Mrs. Greengrass rushed down the hall with a transformed Hermione. Her hair was slicked back into a chignon and interwoven with threads of silver. Pearls adorned her slim throat and hung in her ears. The dress was perfection. The sole jarring note was the book she was reading as they walked; a necessary concession just to get the girl out the door. Potter and the other two girls hurried after them and they all paused just inside the castle door. She sent the others on ahead to take their places and covered Hermione with the invisibility cloak the Potter lad had thrust into her hands. He really was a handy fellow to have about.

"In the nick of time," Dumbledore said as he opened the door. "And I can hear Draco coming now."

Indeed they could. They could probably hear Draco all the way outside. The men came around the corner, Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey each pulling Draco along by an arm. His shoes skidded along the stone floor as he futilely tried to escape their iron grips, swearing impressively. The elder Flint shrugged at the headmaster rather helplessly.

"We had to stun him to get him into the showers and we managed well enough until the robes were on him but I didn't think the wedding would go too well if it was held in the hospital ward, so we tried dragging him after that. I'm open to suggestions, Headmaster. We can't take him out there like this, there are ladies out there."

"I won't!" Draco yelled, as if to emphasize this. "I won't and you can't make me!"

Professor Dumbledore looked at him quietly. Draco's struggles continued but the force lessened noticeably.

"I don't want to, Professor. It's preposterous. Let go, Pucey, damned poncey little yob. Surely there is another way, Professor. I'll do anything!"

Dumbledore took a deep breath and exhaled calmly. He put a steadying hand on Draco's shoulder. "Draco, what's done is done. You made your choice and you, at least, made it freely. Your mother gave you life a second time; be grateful for that."

"But -"

"There's nothing else for it, lad."

Draco ceased struggling and shrugged off the restraining hands. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed his shoes. "I could maybe -"

"No."

"Professor. _Please._"

Dumbledore stared him down and Draco quieted. The headmaster put an arm around him and led him towards the door. "Good, then. Your guests are waiting and I'm positively famished. Did you know the cake has a raspberry filling? I've always been partial to raspberries. And rum punch. I do believe Mrs. Greengrass intends to set us all drunk."

Mrs. Greengrass sighed with relief as the men filed past. She watched from the door as Dumbledore led Draco to stand at the front of the aisle next to Marcus Flint, the best man, and the others took their seats. There was one awful moment when it looked as if he might try to run for it but Dumbledore must have had him by an incredible grip. The music began and she felt around for Hermione, locating her by the sound of whispering as the girl read to herself near the door where Mrs. Greengrass had left her. There was some protesting as the book was taken away but, oddly, the promise of its immediate return mollified her and she allowed herself to be led to the archway at the foot of the aisle where the Weasley girl waited. Mrs. Greengrass ignored the barely audible whimper issued from under the cloak as every eye turned their way, waited for a crescendo in the music and removed the cloak with a whispered good luck. She stood back out of sight as the girl seemed to appear out of nowhere, a vision in soft grey, swaying slightly. Ginny placed the bouquet of lilies in her hands, steadied her and finally gave her a little push to get her started.

Feeling distinctly ill, Hermione falteringly made her way down the aisle. Ginny prodding her every other step helped greatly. She focused her eyes on Dumbledore and tried not to be sick all over her new dress - which, truth be told, she rather liked. _Deep breath. Step. Deep breath. Step. If I run now I can - all right, Ginny. Deep breath. Step. Should I be able to feel my hands? _The faces of her parents smiled hesitantly at her, her mother looking from Hermione to the pale blonde groom with some confusion. _Deep breath. Step. _Mrs. Weasley sobbed loudly on her husband's shoulder and Arthur nodded encouragingly - if a bit despondently - to Hermione. _Deep breath. Step. _Harry's lips were thinned and white but his expression was inscrutable. He had a bracing arm around Ron's shoulders. _Deep breath. Deep breath. Ron. _The man who ought to have been waiting at the end of this aisle was slumped in his chair, eyes fixed firmly on the ground between his large feet, his hands dangling uselessly between his knees. Perhaps he heard the sound of her steps stop, or the anxious whispers of the crowd watching with bated breath; his chin lifted and he met her gaze. His mouth creased into a soft smile, telling her she looked beautiful, but his eyes were terrible. Their eyes broke apart and her gaze moved again to the endless stretch of red velvet before her.

_Deep breath._

_Step. _

Dumbledore was reached at last and she stopped, grateful for having made it. Then Dumbledore began to speak and she remembered that this wasn't over yet. Damn. He nattered on as her mind raced from one plan of escape to another until Ginny jabbed her sharply in the back. She was supposed to be looking at Draco right now. _Oh no, not yet, I'm not ready!_

"Hermione Granger, by the love that resides in your heart and the life that flows through your veins, do you promise to honour and cherish this wizard, standing in the protective embrace of his name and strong wand arm..."

'This wizard' was glaring at her as if this were all her idea and she glared back. Nasty little git. She ought to punch him smack in the –

"Hermione!" Ginny hissed. Oh. Yes. She was required to say something at this point. Her lips opened and a squeak came out. Dumbledore looked at her expectantly.

"I... Oh, all right."

The crowd tittered and Draco glared harder.

"Then take his hand." In her opinion, that was asking rather a lot. "We'll be patient."

Realising that she was making a spectacle of herself, Hermione handed the bouquet to Ginny, accepted the ring in return and took Draco's hand. Surprisingly, it was even more clammy than her own.

"Repeat after me. I, Hermione Granger, do take this wizard as mine, unconditionally accepting the offer of his ties and bloodline, offering in return my strength and devotion. As a cauldron springs eternal, so shall my body renew him. If he wants, I shall provide…"

Hermione mouthed the words obediently, refusing to look at anything but Draco's hand. A strange, throbbing lump formed in her throat. This wasn't how she had always pictured it. But she wouldn't think about that now or she would truly make a spectacle out of herself. She slid the ring onto his finger and let his hand drop.

"Draco Malfoy, by the love that resides in your heart and the life that flows through your veins, do you promise to honour and cherish this witch, bestowing upon her the protection of your name and strong wand arm..."

Hermione didn't listen as he said something that made the crowd snicker again and allowed him to take her hand. She watched, listening with half an ear to his rumbling voice, as he slid the ring onto her finger with a hand that shook. Good. Hopefully he was miserable. Miserable and nervous; after all, he would have to sleep sometime and she was armed.

"By the power vested in me by the Wizengamot and Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." As one they turned to stare at the headmaster as if he had asked them to jump in the lake. "Or we can dispense with the formalities and have some cake. Ladies and gentlemen, guests, friends, I give you the Malfoys."


	14. Celebration of Was and MightHaveBeen

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 14: Celebration of Was and Might-Have-Been**

The reception was, thankfully, less noteworthy than the ceremony had been. There was a tent and dining section and a garden for dancing, with an excellent orchestra. Draco stayed on one side of the party and Hermione on the other. Everyone knew better than to expect them to engage in the traditional newlywed dance to start off the festivities. All except one couple, that is.

"Hermione dear, what's going on? I thought your fellow had red hair."

"Hi, Mum." Hermione said with a sickly smile. "Glad you found Hogwarts without too much trouble."

"Don't change the subject. I distinctly recall you saying this fellow had red hair. That," Mrs. Granger pointed sharply at Draco, "is not a redhead."

"And you looked like you were about to pass out. Honey, what's going on here?"

"Hi, Dad. It's rather a long story," Hermione explained lamely. "Can I get you some champagne?"

"No," they said together. Mrs. Granger continued. "You can tell us what this is all about."

Harry and Ron chose this inauspicious moment to join them. "Well," Harry noted, "that was moderately gruesome."

"Vile, loathsome little…" Ron said in strangled tones. Hermione figured he had been swearing for hours and was only now reaching the outer limits of his vocabulary.

"Now _that_ is a redhead." Mrs. Granger shot a sharp look at her daughter. "Hermione _Granger_, are you pregnant?"

Hermione, sputtering indignantly, was rescued by the appearance of Mesdames Weasley and Greengrass, the former sobbing into a very large, damp and polka-dotted handkerchief about how lovely Hermione looked and how cruel it all was. Mrs. Weasley caught sight of Ron and burst into fresh wails.

"Mrs. Malfoy," said a harried-looking Mrs. Greengrass, "I've instructed the house elves to send the gifts along to the Manor, you'll find them in the library, and I've passed along your regrets at sitting out the dancing. It was a disappointment to many - people are very curious to meet you - but considering your recent release from the hospital wing-"

"Hospital wing! Hermione Jane Granger, you have some explaining to do and it had better be good," interrupted Mr. Granger.

"You must be her parents! How lovely to meet you at last," interjected Mrs. Greengrass smoothly, holding out a slim hand. Mr. Granger shook it delicately. "I trust my husband was able to lead you past the wards with no trouble? Wonderful. There was some concern about that and it would have been such a pity if you had been unable to attend. And this is just perfect; you, Mr. Granger, can open the dances with Draco's aunt Andromeda and your wife with his uncle. That should satisfy convention and then I'll take you round for the introductions. Simply _everyone _is here tonight; ministers and chancellors practically hanging from the chandeliers, _both_ Russian Grand Dukes, a full delegation from the Bergeres - of the House of Bergere, their money is in fashion design and they refuse to attend _anything_. Quite the impressive turn-out, I assure you, but what else would one expect at the wedding of a Malfoy to one of Harry Potter's closest childhood friends?"

Mrs. Greengrass expertly steered them toward the dance floor, pausing to whisper an inquiry to Hermione on whether Muggles knew how to waltz and, reassured that they did, left Hermione's little group to themselves. Not that they remained alone for long, Mrs. Greengrass had exaggerated neither the number of guests nor their curiosity about the new Mrs. Malfoy. Hermione was confusedly trying to fend off conversation with a persistent Chinese fellow when Nott showed up at her elbow.

"Mrs. Malfoy is tired, her injuries you understand, so if you'll excuse her." Nott gave an oily smile to the Chinese and received one back just as slick, then hissed to Potter, "What the hell are you trying to do, letting her talk to that fellow? She damned near promised him an exclusive contract on Malfoy textile production in France!"

"Is that what he was on about?" Harry said mildly.

Nott sniffed in disgust. "Amateurs."

8

Mrs. Granger broke free of the dancers and made her way through the press towards ornate bench seats surrounding the parquet. She sat with relief and fanned her face.

"Mum." Her daughter sat down next to her and handed her a glass of rum punch. "It's a bit warm out there, is it?"

Mrs. Granger sipped at her drink and nodded. "That Russian fellow is a menace. Don't those people learn dancing?"

"I imagine it's up to individual talent, Mum, just like Muggles."

"I didn't mean anything by-"

"I know, Mum."

Mrs. Granger set her glass on the bench and reached a hand up to tuck a loose strand of her daughter's hair back into its chignon. She smiled, a bit wistfully. "I swear it, just a week ago you were six years old. It passes too quickly, you know. Now that I think on it, I suppose you _will_ know that for yourself soon enough."

"I'm not pregnant, Mum."

"I know that. You'd be surprised at what I know, Hermione."

A sudden chill slipped into her stomach, as if she had just swallowed a large ice cube. Hermione tightened her grip on her rum punch and took a careful sip. "For example?" she asked in a casual voice.

"That boy you just married? You don't like him."

Hermione scoffed but couldn't think of anything to say counter to this, so settled for another sip of her punch.

"Don't make that noise at me, sweetie. If I'm not much mistaken, that's the same boy you've spent so much time telling me you hated ever since you started to this school. Only now you've married him, and he's stayed on one end of the party while you've stayed on the other and I don't think you've so much as looked at each other since the reception started." Mrs. Granger removed Hermione's glass from her hand, set it aside and curled her fingers around her daughter's. "Sweetheart, years ago you asked us to trust you. We do. But if you need help, if something has gone wrong and you think I won't understand… I don't need to understand, just say the word and I'll get you out of here. With your talent and the money your father's great-aunt left us, we can hide you."

Hermione looked up from under her lashes and met her mother's gaze. Their eyes held and she opened her mouth; to say what, she wasn't certain.

"Just say the word, sweetie," her mother whispered, "and I'll hide you."

"I-" Hermione broke off and picked up her glass, taking a heartening gulp. She met her mother's eyes again and smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Mum. Cold feet, perhaps. Draco and I had a row yesterday and we still haven't managed to apologise yet."

Mrs. Granger gave her a searching look. "You're quite certain?"

"Yes, Mum. He can be so damned _stubborn_ sometimes, if he'd only admit that I'm right then this reception would have been perfect. And I never hated him, he spent most of the last seven years teasing me. Wanted to hex his toenails off, yes, rather often, but I never hated him."

Mrs. Granger laughed. "One of those, then. So it turns out this boy spent the last seven years chasing you and finally figured out how to get your attention?"

"Well, that's one way of looking at it."

"And here you had me so worried. I must have sounded silly just now." She put a comfortable arm around her child and squeezed lightly. "Never mind your old mother, pumpkin. And congratulations. When you and your boy are on speaking terms again, you'll have to introduce us properly."

8

Hermione carefully hung her dress and handed it off to one of the Greengrass house elves for cleaning. It _was_ a lovely dress, and it had been a beautiful wedding, happily uninterrupted by the groom. She told herself rather numbly that she must remember to thank Mrs. Greengrass properly. She couldn't recall a thing about the ceremony itself but her mother had already promised that was perfectly normal.

Eyes unfocused, she wandered her dormitory room aimlessly, trailing her fingers along the furniture and tangible mementos of childhood. All around her were a thousand old familiar things reminiscent of Hogwarts and her school days; her schoolbooks there on the nightstand, the smell of Parvati's perfume, loose parchment stacked untidily in the corners. She fingered the drapes of her four poster bed and thought of all the nights spent studying behind their heavy fabric walls by a conjured light. Tracing the heavy gouge marks in the table, she remembered the many hours spent sitting there poring over notes - research, mostly, and more often than not some plan to get Harry out of his latest scrape. Deep in her trunk, buried beneath robes and Gryffindor-coloured scarves and her potions kit, was a book her mother had bought in the days after she had received her Hogwarts letter, a book of fairy tales. Oh, the shock and excitement of that day. _You are living a fairy tale_, her mother had said proudly. It was true: how many little girls dreamed that one day someone would walk into her life and explain that she was special. How many little girls fantasised about being whisked off to a magical land where dreams came true and one young girl could help save the world.

On what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, Hermione finally began to sob as she had wanted to for all those long hours, and ceased to believe in fairy tales.

8

Classes were slated to finally resume the following morning. Hermione welcomed the respite, the return to some semblance of normalcy - or would have if a summons to the Headmaster's office weren't keeping her from her first class. Up the moving stairs she went, knocked on the door and was admitted. It was apparently not to be a private meeting; Draco scowled at her like a fair-haired cloud of doom.

"I know for a fact that you own a brush, Granger. You might try using it from time to time."

"Shut it or I'll invite my parents to stay for a month and introduce them to everyone you know."

"Wonderful to see the pair of you have mastered the art of marriage so soon." Dumbledore smiled mildly and they swallowed their hostilities - or at least submerged them momentarily to resume the battle in less sarcastic company.

"Happily, it seems my suspicions were correct. The contract is satisfied so long as you both reside in Hogwarts even if it is in separate Houses. You may continue to live in your own dormitories for the duration of the term. It might be advisable that these weeks be spent studying for your N.E.W.T.s and learning to tolerate each other's company."

Both objected loudly. "But Sir-"

"And," Dumbledore overrode them, "in parting I'd like you to recall the sacrifices of Wodin, who hung himself for nine days and gave an eye in exchange for great wisdoms and gifts."

Perplexed, Hermione thought this one over and opened her mouth to ask a question.

"Well then, I've made you late enough! Off to classes with you both."

Harry and Ron were waiting for her in Transfiguration as she slipped into her seat and took out her textbook. "Well? Dumbledore think of anything good?"

She shook her head and blew hair out of her face. "Just said we could stay in our own dormitories."

"We already knew that one, didn't we? You stayed in your room last night without any problems," Ron pointed out sourly. Then he perked up. "Y'think this means you won't have to live at Malfoy Manor? Maybe you can come to France after all, that'd be great-"

"Mr. Weasley! Seeing as you've already mastered this lesson sufficient to ignore my instruction, perhaps you would care to demonstrate for the rest of the class?"

The chair Ron was supposed to conjure from thin air was remarkably close - if you ignored the pink feathers and that it was chirping. Still, he looked smugly pleased with himself.

"An adequate effort," Professor McGonagall said grudgingly, quickly amending it with, "one which would have been much improved if you had paid attention to _clear instructions_ regarding proper wand movement. Who can tell me which crucial technique Mr. Weasley ought to perfect before he performs a stunt like that in front of the N.E.W.T. examiners?"

A return to normalcy felt somehow wrong. A morning's Transfiguration and Herbology classes followed by lunch in the Great Hall with Ron and Harry moaning about Professor McGonagall's homework… unless a Time-Turner were involved somewhere, it defied logic. But no, there was Ron gulping chicken pie and sprouts as if he might have to fight the house elves for the scraps and Harry pushing his _Advanced Transfiguration _textbook back into his bookbag with an air of one who believed ignorance to be bliss. The familiarity of it jangled the nerves, convinced as they were that the defeat of the most fearsome Dark wizard in centuries and Hermione's own peculiar circumstances ought to have halted the sun in its tracks. Dark wizards and personal disasters aside, the wheels of time ground on. Stone, flesh and bone were mended, the raw freshness of new grief faded to painful scars on the heart matching those more visible as the bereaved became adjusted to speaking of their losses in the past tense. Life marched onward, and the sorrowing emerged from their first, deepest despair into a different atmosphere, initially tentative and then more exuberantly one of celebration.

The Dark Lord is defeated! Party in the common room! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is no more! All hail Harry Potter! N.E.W.T.s have been rescheduled for the third week of June!

Oh, crumbs.

The last few weeks in the term were not spent, as Dumbledore had suggested, getting chummy with Draco. N.E.W.T. examinations were looming fast; class hours were spent desperately cramming in the missed weeks' work. The spells were devilishly tricky, the techniques and potions hopelessly complicated to master; every spare moment between classes was spent revising. Hermione's schedule was further complicated by what Harry and Ron had dubbed 'the … you know… thing' intruding into her school life. Certain issues were mere annoyances easily handled. Hermione rather neatly headed off the sudden flood of social invitations with a stroke so brilliant that Nott grudgingly confessed his admiration. Malfoy house elves had opened and catalogued the many wedding presents and delivered the list by morning post owl two days after. On thick parchment edged in black Hermione had carefully handwritten individual thank-you notes to the givers with a postscript noting that, most regrettably, due to the sad and sudden loss of Draco's mother they would prefer to respect her memory in the quiet of Hogwarts castle.

"Personally handwritten," Nott said with a touch of awe as Hermione massaged her aching right hand. "When Pucey's older brother married, his bride borrowed her grandmother's house elves and had them writing 'round the clock. Now this… this is classy." He frowned on her refusal to use the Malfoy seal but kept his peace. Perhaps she was thinking it would seem overeager on her part, and perhaps that was a fair point.

Missives arrived at regular intervals from researchers - including the noted French Arithmancer with whom she had hoped to secure an apprenticeship - detailing the importance of both their work and their need for grants from a wealthy, intellectual patron such as Madame Malfoy, and if she would only glance over the enclosed synopsis of their research efforts to date, surely she would agree. Ron said that it sounded like a load of fancy talk for begging. Hermione tried to point out that great breakthroughs could not be made if the best minds weren't allowed to pursue their studies unhindered by such mundane concerns as Galleons and Sickles, and what a wonderful thing it would be if she could convince Draco to put the Malfoy fortune to good work supporting the sciences. Ron thought this meant she agreed with him and took to announcing the arrival of each grant proposal by waving the envelope and telling her she had another brainy beggar queuing up for free gold. Hermione ignored this and filed each proposal away, intending to answer them after examinations were over.

Not everything was quite this simple. She received a request from the Ministry, seeking her permission for a search of the Malfoy Manor and grounds and promising to remove or nullify any Dark items found there. Remembering Draco's hideous Hand of Glory - a shriveled arm which only gave light to the holder - and what a job the Order had cleaning up headquarters at Grimmauld Place, she gave her consent with some relief; at least she wouldn't have to move into the Manor with goodness only knew what hanging about in hidden corners.

She was at breakfast one morning, anxiously reviewing stacks of notes on Professor Vector's orbital angles of peripheral denominators and pausing only to check references in a thick book titled_ Causal Connection Theorems and Interrelational Mathematics _(Ron tried to read it once but said it took an hour for his eyes to uncross and the room to stop spinning) when a spectacular explosion blew in the doors to the Great Hall. Students cowered under tables, screaming, and Draco charged into the room, pale with fury and scanning the lengths of the tables, the _Daily Prophet_ clutched in his fist. Several teachers at the staff table leapt to their feet.

"WHERE IS SHE? Jumped-up little bushy-haired… GET OFF!" He snarled as a few of his housemates jumped from the Slytherin table and wrestled him backward. "I'LL KILL HER. SHE'LL WISH SHE'D-"

What Hermione would have wished, no one could be certain of as a parent stuffed a napkin into Draco's mouth to silence him. Overpowering him, he was hustled from the room and in the shocked silence the people in the Great Hall could clearly hear the commotion fading back in the direction of the dungeon; Draco obviously fighting every step of the way.

"Well," Harry remarked dryly. "I could be wrong, but it seems Malfoy's upset about something."

"Pity. Pass the bacon, Harry."

"That isn't funny, boys," Hermione said, wringing her hands anxiously. "He was really upset, though I can't think what-"

Professor McGonagall had left the staff table and hurried to where they were seated. "Miss Granger… er, Mrs… that is to say, Hermione…" Flustered, she skipped the introductions and dropped her newspaper onto the table in front of them. "Was this your doing?"

Hermione spread open the front page of the _Prophet_, searching for the cause of the ruckus. She didn't have far to look.

"Blimey," murmured Ron. "Serves him right, of course, but I think I'd be a bit rumpled myself."

The front page headline screamed MINISTRY RAIDS PROMINENT FAMILY HOME. Beneath, taking up half the front page, were several photographs of Ministry officials tearing apart Malfoy Manor in search of contraband. Hermione watched in horror as an unnamed Auror knocked over a wardrobe to peer behind it and then blasted a hole in the wall just to be certain. Her eyes slid to the photo next to it - taken in the library, she assumed - where another was tossing books haphazardly off the shelves and onto the floor, carefully tapping the empty shelves to check for hidden compartments while a second Auror tore apart the books littering the floor.

"That's disgraceful", she said, incensed. "I gave them consent to search for Dark items, not loot and pillage."

"And it couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke," Ron said contentedly. "Didja see the look on his face, Harry?"

"Oh, come off it, Ron," Hermione said scathingly, shoving her notes and books into her bag. "This had nothing to do with Malfoy and everything to do with the Ministry polishing their public image. Think they'll play _me_ for a fool, do they? We'll see about this. Excuse me, Professor."


	15. Scorned

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Oi, I failed to give full props to my beta, Eilonwy, in the last chapter (so awful of me!). All hail the betas!

* * *

**Chapter 15 : Scorned**

Draco was forcibly marched to the dungeon common rooms by the few parents in the halls, and closely followed by a furious Theodore Nott. They gained the relative safety of Slytherin house, where they immediately banished the blazing young Malfoy to his dorm room and manned the figurative battlements. The password was changed, watches were set, all students not in class were recalled to the safety of the common room. It wasn't mere coincidence that the last parents residing within Hogwarts were Slytherins; the atmosphere of the wizarding community was decidedly anti-Death Eater, and frequently there was cause to wonder if "anti-Death Eater" and "anti-Slytherin" were seen as the same thing. After Draco's unfortunate decision to blast into the Great Hall, failing only to wave a neon banner reading, 'big bad dangerous Slytherin who escaped the purge', retaliation was expected.

If Draco managed to escape retribution from the community, Nott vowed, he would still have to face him. _Imbecile!_ Agitated, Nott paced his dorm room, pausing only to kick a few choice pieces of furniture. All his hard work! Ruined in one sentimental fit of temper! He kicked at his trunk a few more times then sat on it, breathing hard. A moment later he rummaged through his pockets for his bag of candied orange peel. He needed a plan.

For once, Hermione was two steps ahead of him. She already had a plan. By the time Nott had worked out his rage on hapless furniture, she had already executed the plan and was curling up in a squashy armchair in her common room with a fresh mug of tea, a purring Crookshanks and her Potions notes, Harry and Ron pantomiming Draco's earlier display to hilarious effect by the boys' stairs. Only the practised eye would have seen her eyes twitch repeatedly towards the portrait hole and her fingers creeping up to absently tug a stray curl. She couldn't settle down. She was waiting for something.

"Something" arrived in the form of a delegation from the Ministry a scant two hours later. McGonagall, her intense curiosity belied only by the continual sidelong glances, escorted Hermione with typical manner-of-fact efficiency to the Head's office, sternly informing the boys that their presence was neither desired nor required. Standing outside the door, Hermione took one deep breath and entered without knocking.

Minister Bones remained seated as she entered the room, sending Hermione a reproving glance. "It is customary to knock, young lady."

"Oh!" Hermione said, eyes shining with apology. "I was sent for and presumed I was expected. This must be a different meeting though, one that doesn't concern me. My apologies, Minister, Professor, I'll go back to wait in my common room."

"No need, no need at all." Professor Dumbledore had risen and indicated a comfortable seat opposite the Minister. He did not quite meet her gaze but Hermione had her suspicions about those mirthfully twinkling eyes. He waited until she was comfortable and offered them all tea. The Minister declined and didn't bother to check if her companions standing behind her cared for anything; Hermione accepted with her thanks and informed the headmaster how she took her tea. He served from an exquisitely old set and Hermione exclaimed over it. They were just beginning what promised to be a delightful conversation about sugar tongs when an exasperated noise burst from the Minister's throat.

Mournfully, Dumbledore set aside the tongs. "Yes. Quite. Go ahead, Amelia."

"This is your office, Albus," the Minister said lightly, "I wouldn't dream of-"

"I suppose I'll be sending Mrs. Malfoy along then," he said pleasantly. "After all, she's broken no school rules and was only summoned to my office at your request."

Madam Bones' expression hardened slightly. "Fine." She turned to face Hermione. "You don't understand what you've done. The _Daily Prophet_ is in a panic, saying you've offered the Malfoy interests in the paper for sale. Transferring every Knut and bauble from the Gringotts accounts to the Swiss - Blognak refuses to budge from my offices, says it would be a banking catastrophe."

"Is that all?" Hermione asked.

"ALL?" the Minister exploded. "With just those-"

"You misunderstood me," Hermione interrupted. "What I meant was, is that all you've heard from. It's been two hours since I sent out the owls to liquidate all Malfoy holdings in Britain and move them to the continent. You probably missed a few owls in your hurry to get here."

The Minister gaped silently, then erupted off her chair to shake a finger in Hermione's placid face. "Now listen here, young lady, you have NO idea what you're doing! Malfoys have a finger in every pie, pasty and loaf of bread in wizarding Britain. Do you have ANY notion what that would do to our economy? DO YOU?"

"So you assume it was merely by accident that I gave the order," Hermione replied coolly. "A mistake, perhaps, and if the Minister would only have me dragged to the Headmaster's office to be told firmly what a naughty girl I am then I'll fall right into line."

Madam Bones froze, finger still in Hermione's face. "You did that deliberately? Knowing what havoc it would cause?"

"If you aren't prepared to discuss terms yet, I'm willing to wait," Hermione offered. "I imagine once you see the number of panicked owls awaiting your return to your office, you'll come around. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore and I shall continue our conversation on his lovely tea set, to save time sending for me again."

She chanced a glance at Dumbledore, who was whistling as he read a copy of the Quibbler. Madam Bones followed her gaze and resumed her seat in a state of high dudgeon. "Little girl, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

Hermione leaned forward, eyes snapping. "I brought down the Deputy Undersecretary in my fifth year, wandless and alone." The rest hung unspoken.

_Just think what I can do now._

X

Nott watched from a hidden alcove as the Ministry delegation left the headmaster's office, looking extremely displeased. The Gryffindor twit emerged a few minutes later and he pounced.

"You are the biggest, absolutely the biggest-"

"I won," she said shortly. "And were you waiting out here the whole time? How did you know I was in the headmaster's office?"

"A dickey bird told me." He paused, almost visibly changing mental tactics. "What do you mean, you won?"

"Public apologies all around, punative damages, the Ministry paying the bills for the cleaning and construction crews I will be hiring to repair the Manor. You know, Nott, _winning_."

"How did you do it?" She told him. 'Gobsmacked' was never a more appropriate word.

"The _Minister of Magic_? Rather dancing with the devil and his wife, weren't you?"

"You say that as if I wouldn't have followed through," she said grimly. Nott could only stare and follow her as she marched down the corridor, a warm bubble growing in his stomach that could be identified only as affection. Or perhaps nausea. Probably affection, though.

Later than night Hermione perched delicately on a soft green couch in front of a marble fireplace, trying not to stare at everything all at once. So this was the Slytherin common room. Too late, she spotted an ink stain on her right hand and hid it under a fold of her school robe, cheeks flaming. Malfoy sat next to her, upper lip curling ostentatiously, and Nott paced behind them. A stout, nervous woman who had introduced herself as Doreen Pritchard placed a teacup in Hermione's hand, and Hermione gripped it as the cup chattered on the saucer and nearly dumped in her lap.

"S-s-sorry, Madame. Don't know- I'm just so-" Mrs. Pritchard gulped, Hermione smiled encouragingly and patted her hand. "You're quite certain? Harry Potter promised to escort our students to classes?"

Hermione assured her that Harry would be taking steps to ensure the safety of the young Slytherins, including volunteering himself to escort duty. Nott had told her of the parents barricading the children in the common room after Malfoy's public temper tantrum, and she had been incensed that these people were living in such fear. Years of badgering her boys had paid off. She had their agreement in under twenty minutes to arrange (and participate in) a personal escort for the Slytherin students to and from their classrooms until the end of the year. The plump woman nearly wept in relief, patting Hermione's shoulder and tottering off with weak sobs of, "Harry Potter himself, such a great man". Malfoy's lip curled higher and he stared at the fireplace as if contemplating throwing the lot of them into the flames and dancing naked around their burning corpses. Hermione took a nervous sip of her tea and checked the clock on the mantel. The _Daily Prophet _was late and she wasn't sure how much more of this she could stand.

Nott apparently couldn't bear the strain either, as he gave up pacing to drill them on their strategy one more time. Hermione had thought he might kiss her when she told him that she had arranged an evening interview with the wizarding paper, and he had immediately lost himself in the contemplation of exactly what should be said and how they should look. His eagerness to leap at every opportunity to scheme might have been amusing if he hadn't decided that the interview must take place in Slytherin territory... with Malfoy at her side. She had agreed only because she was certain even Nott would never have been able to wheedle Malfoy into sitting next to her and playing the part of the dutiful husband. Fervently she swore never to underestimate Nott again. She chanced a sidelong glance at Malfoy and, horrified, met a sidelong glance of his own. Their eyes immediately jerked to stare the other way.

"Here, here, are we all ready then?" A reedy man, quite bald and with a quill tucked behind his ear, strode into the common room and looked delightedly at the pair of them seated together. He stuck out his hand, "Henley Hopkinson, lead reporter, lovely to meet you both - Sam, get a shot of them on the couch, excellent, lad - and this here is, of course, Barnabas Cuffe, editor and fondest nightmare of reporters on three continents."

"Hello, Mr. Cuffe," Hermione said in a pleasant, if strained, voice. "I didn't know you would be coming as well."

"I had to make ab-so-lutely certain you were satisfied with the quality of our work, Madame Malfoy," Cuffe said with an endearing, desperate smile. "I confess, you gave me a bit of a shock this morning..."

"Oh, that." Hermione's ears turned a faint pink. She had opened her mouth to apologise but Nott caught her eye, hidden behind the photographer and shaking his head frantically. She changed direction, saying instead, "We can discuss that some other time more fully, Mr. Cuffe. I will be arranging meetings with all benefactors of Malfoy investments once term lets out, perhaps you would be good enough to clear your calendar for me?"

He paled but managed a weak smile and waved Hopkinson forward to begin the interview. The man licked the tip of his quill, grinned at them and began rapid-firing questions. A dizzying three minutes and five photos later, Hermione wondered when Draco had learned to speak in sound bites. Good grief, he actually had _rapport _with this reporter. Look at him, flashing an easy smile as he dodged one question and segued neatly into the more scintillating subject of the marriage's possible consummation _(All the time in the world, and not a great deal of privacy in a dorm room. Surely you recall that!) _Hermione pasted on a smile as the pair shared a locker-room laugh, and hoped this would be over soon.

"So, Mr. Malfoy," Hopkinson licked his quill again and quirked an eyebrow. "I hear there was quite a ruckus earlier today?"

Draco waved a hand dismissively. "Old news, chap, and probably hyperbolic. Yes, we had a bit of a row but we talked it over and I apologised for making such a public display."

Hermione interrupted, because the next smarmy word from the git's mouth would force her to box his ears. "He had cause, certainly. Even Ron - Ron Weasley, one of my best friends - agreed on that. I entrusted Malfoy Manor to the Ministry that they might catalogue and safely remove any lingering, dangerous Dark artifacts for us. Instead, the Ministry chose to... well, you saw what they did to our home. Simply shocking. I don't blame Draco."

Draco slid closer and squeezed her hand intimately, causing the photographer to reflexively capture the shot. "You're far too sweet, Hermione, I don't deserve it. Such a vulgar display of temper! I owe you more than a simple apology, which is why I arranged for this." He snapped his fingers and Nott hurried forward with a parcel. The photographer nearly had a seizure as he captured her surprise from every possible angle when Draco lifted a classic strand of creamy pearls from the velvet interior and gently moved her mass of hair aside to fasten them around her throat. "Lovely," he announced. "These suit you ever so much better than the black Tahitians you wore at our wedding."

She wanted to smack him, but that would have made the front page.

"This Ron Weasley," Hopkinson interrupted, "best friend to Harry Potter and yourself since first year, yes? There is a very credible rumour that links you and Ron as a sure match. How has the contract affected that?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "There is not a witch or wizard in Britain today who doesn't live in a world of might-have-beens because of Voldemort's crimes. I am very blessed among them. Many children are mourning their parents or siblings, many wives are without their husbands; I am still able to hope that, after five years, my might-have-been could still become a will-be."

The sound of Nott's face hitting his palm was distinct in the silence that followed. Malfoy stiffened beside her then turned to the reporter, excused himself, rose and stalked away with his head held high. Only when she watched that noble retreat did Hermione realise she had sais a stupid, stupid thing. On record, no less. Nott was going to murder her.


End file.
